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THE HIGH SCHOOL 
PRIZE SPEAKER 



EDITED BY 



WILLIAM LEONARD SNOW, A.M. 

Master in the Brookline (Mass.) High School 




BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
(Cfce fltoer^ifce $re$£ Cambria^ 






COPYRIGHT, I916, BY WILLIAM LEONARD SNOW 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



SELECTIONS BY R. H. SCHAUFFLER, H. W. LONGFELLOW, KATE DOUGLAS 
WIGGIN, AND J. T. TROWBRIDGE, ARE USED BY PERMISSION OF AND 
SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY. THE 
POEM BY H. HAGEDORN IS USED BY PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR. 



SEP 27 1915 



TEfce fciberaibe &rt** 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



'CU438591 



PREFACE 

This is a collection of literary selections which have 
taken prizes at the J. Murray Kay Prize-Speaking 
Contest held annually for the last quarter of a cen- 
tury at the Brookline High School, together with 
other selections of equal merit which on these occa- 
sions have either won honorable mention or been re- 
ceived with especial favor by the audience. 

The interest which Mr. Kay took in establishing 
and maintaining these contests set a high standard of 
excellence, and no pains were spared by the school to 
make the selections and their interpretation the best 
possible. The committee of the faculty which guided 
the contestants in the choice of suitable pieces insisted 
first that the selection must be from the work of a good 
author; for it held that the amount of time spent by 
teacher and student in preparation for prize-speaking 
could hardly be justified if the selections themselves 
possessed little or no literary merit. 

The best literature has most fully the latent power 
to move the hearer, and waits only for the speaker's 
art to become kinetic. Indeed, this power to grip and 
hold the audience which is native to our great mas- 
terpieces may be felt even when the reading is from 
the silent page. But prose or poetry which makes 
no strong appeal to our imagination, convictions, or 
sympathies, but savors of shallow sentimentalism, is 
not good literature and fails when put to the test be- 
fore an audience refined in taste and critical in judg- 
ment. 



iv PREFACE 

Moreover, prize-speaking is properly a phase of the 
work of the English department, and therefore there 
cannot consistently be one literary standard for the 
classroom and another for the platform. The commu- 
nity judges a school and its work more or less by its 
public exhibitions. Unless care be exercised in choos- 
ing selections from the best literature, the performance 
is not likely to be eminently successful, the English 
department is open to criticism, and the reputation 
of the school suffers. 

The task of finding choice selections which are in 
themselves suitable for public entertainment is, how- 
ever, a small part of the work which such exercises 
impose upon teachers. The success of the perform- 
ance is not more dependent upon the intrinsic worth 
of the selections than upon the skillful choice of a 
piece to fit the peculiar abilities and characteristics 
of each speaker. A well-varied program is not only 
desirable for the hearer; it is essential for the parti- 
cipants in the attainment of the greatest individual 
success. One boy reaches his highest excellence with 
a plea, an invective, or other oration ; another may 
better choose a dramatic narrative ; while a third may 
be best fitted to interpret a selection where the appeal 
lies in its pathos or humor. There are girls who are 
naturally most effective in the child's role, while others 
who have not the childish charm can thrill an audi- 
ence by their power to depict stirring scenes and 
spirited action. The selections in this book meet this 
need of variety. They have proved themselves adapted 
to those types of temperament and personality which 
boys and girls of high-school age present. 

In the preliminary trials for the J. Murray Kay con- 
tests each of the speakers is assigned an adviser from 



PREFACE v 

the committee, and is urged to make his own selec- 
tion from a number suggested by the adviser or sub- 
mitted by the student. Never are the pieces arbitra- 
rily chosen for the contestants. For if a selection does 
not appeal to the student, experience proves that it is 
not wise to urge it upon him, however excellent in 
itself it may be. The committee are thereby the better 
enabled to judge what each can do, to prevent misfits 
in the final competition, and to secure for the audi- 
ence an interesting program. 

In view of the favor with which these programs 
through the years have been received by able judges 
and a critical public, it has seemed worth while to 
gather within the covers of a single book the prize- 
winning pieces, together with some others that gave 
equal pleasure to hearers and won honorable mention 
from the judges. 

To teachers who insist that the work of the Elocu- 
tion and English departments be well correlated and 
that they cooperate toward common ends, this book 
may prove serviceable ; for herein are many standard 
selections that are old but not hackneyed, and also 
new material worthy to take its place by the side of 
the familiar. 

Teachers in secondary schools often spend long 
hours in hunting for choice selections suitable for 
public recital. The number of such is increasing since 
more and more high schools and academies are having 
prize-speaking contests as established yearly events. 
It is hoped that this book may shorten the quest of 
these teachers, for its contents not only stand the test 
of literary criticism, as may be seen from a glance at 
the list of authors, but also are suited to pupils of 
high-school age, and make a strong appeal to popular 



vi PREFACE 

interest and sympathy, covering as they do a wide 
range of thought and emotion. 

We take this opportunity to express our grateful 
thanks to the authors and publishers who have cour- 
teously permitted us to use their publications. Due 
acknowledgment is made in a footnote in each case, 
as their copyright selections appear in the book. 

William Leonard Snow. 

The High School, Brooklinb, Mass. 
May 16, 1916. 



CONTENTS 

The Last Lesson .... Alphonse Daudet .... 1 

Commencement Sarah Winter Kellogg . . 6 

A Troop of the Guard 

rides forth To-day . . Hermann Hagedorn ... 11 

A Christmas Present for 

a Lady Myra Kelly 14 

Love among the Black- 
boards Myra Kelly 21 

Pasquale Passes .... T.A.Daly 28 

Da Thief T.A.Daly 30 

The Little God and Dicky Josephine Dodge Daskam . 32 

Ardelia in Arcady . . . Josephine Dodge Daskam . 39 

" Scum o' the Earth " . . Robert Haven Schauffler . 48 

The Man without a Coun- 
try Edward Everett Hale . . 52 

Herve Riel Robert Browning .... 59 

Fort Wagner Anna E. Dickinson ... 65 

Pheidippides Robert Browning .... 69 

The Rescue of Lygia . . Henry Sienkiewicz ... 77 

Shamus O'Brien .... Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu . 83 

Michael Strogoff, Courier 

of the Czar Jules Verne 88 

The Leap of Roushan Beg Henry W. Longfellow . . 96 

The Revenge Alfred, Lord Tennyson . 99 

Buck wins a Wager . . Jack London 106 

The Highwayman .... Alfred Noyes Ill 

The Death of Steerforth Charles Dickens .... 117 



CONTENTS 



The High Tide on the Coast 

of Lincolnshire .... Jean Ingelow . . . 

The Sacrifice of Sydney 

Carton Charles Dickens . . 

The Passing of Arthur . Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

The Juggler of Touraine Edwin Markham . . 

A Tragedy in Millinery . Kate Douglas Wiggin 

The Poor Fisher Folk . . Victor Hugo . . . 

The Famine Henry W. Longfellow 

My Double and how he 

undid me Edward Everett Hale 

Two Pair of Shoes . . . Joseph C. Lincoln . 

Darius Green and his Fly- 
ing Machine John T. Trowbridge 

How "Ruby" played . . Anonymous. . . . 

Brother Billy Goat eats 

his Dinner Joel Chandler Harris 

When Malindy sings . . Paul Laurence Dunbar 

"Tommy" Rudy ard Kipling . . 

Gunga Din Rudyard Kipling . . 

A Message to Garcia . . Elbert Hubbard . . 

Dreamers William Jennings Bryan 



122 

128 
135 
140 
146 
154 
159 

165 
171 

179 
187 

192 
196 
199 
202 
205 
209 



Lasca 

Mother and Poet .... 

Invective against Napo- 
leon the Little. . . . 

The Path of Duty . . . 

The Solution of the South- 
ern Problem Booker T. Washington 

Abraham Lincoln .... Henry T. Watterson 

Index of Titles 



F. Desprez 212 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 216 

Victor Hugo ..... 221 
George Frisbie Hoar . . 224 



228 
232 
239 



THE HIGH SCHOOL PRIZE 
SPEAKER 

THE LAST LESSON 1 
A YOUNG ALSATIAN'S NAKRATIVE 

ALPHONSE DAUDET 

That morning it was quite late before I started 
for school, and I was terribly afraid I should be 
scolded, for Monsieur Hamel had told us that he 
would question us upon participles, and I did not 
know the first thing about them. 

I counted upon making my entrance in the midst 
of the usual babel at the beginning of the session, 
and reaching my seat unobserved, but upon this par- 
ticular morning all was hushed. Sabbath stillness 
reigned. Through the open window I could see that 
my comrades had already taken their seats ; I could 
see Monsieur Hamel himself, passing back and forth, 
his formidable iron ruler under his arm. 

I must open that door. I must enter in the midst 
of that deep silence. I need not tell you that I grew 
red in the face, and terror seized me. 

But, strangely enough, as Monsieur Hamel scru- 
tinized me, there was no anger in his gaze. He said 
very gently, — 

"Take your seat quickly, my little Franz. We 
were going to begin without you." 

1 From " Monday Tales," translated by Marian Mclntyre. By per- 
mission of the publishers, Little, Brown & Co., Boston. 



2 THE LAST LESSON 

I climbed over the bench, and seated myself. But 
when I had recovered a little from my fright, I no- 
ticed that our master had donned his beautiful green 
frock-coat, his finest frilled shirt, and his embroidered 
black silk calotte, which he wore only on inspection 
days, or upon those occasions when prizes were dis- 
tributed. Moreover, an extraordinary solemnity had 
taken possession of my classmates. But the greatest 
surprise of all came when my eye fell upon the 
benches at the farther end of the room. Usually they 
were empty, but upon this morning the villagers were 
seated there, solemn as ourselves. There sat old Hau- 
ser, with his three-cornered hat, there sat the vener- 
able mayor, the aged carrier, and other personages of 
importance. All of our visitors seemed sad, and 
Hauser had brought with him an old primer, chewed 
at the edges. It lay wide open on his knees, his big 
spectacles reposing on the page. 

While I was wondering at all these things, Mon- 
sieur Hamel had taken his seat, and in the same 
grave and gentle tone in which he had greeted me, 
he said to us, — 

" My children, this is the last day I shall teach 
you. The order has come from Berlin that henceforth 
in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine all instruction 
shall be given in the German tongue only. Your new 
master will arrive to-morrow. To-day you hear the 
last lesson you will receive in French, and I beg you 
will be most attentive." 

My " last " French lesson ! And I scarcely knew 
how to write ! Now I should never learn. My edu- 
cation must be cut short. How I grudged at that 
moment every minute I had lost, every lesson I had 
missed! And those books which a moment before 



THE LAST LESSON 3 

were so dry and dull, so heavy to carry, seemed now 
to wear the faces of old friends, whom I could not 
bear to bid farewell. It was with them as with Mon- 
sieur Hamel : the thought that he was about to leave, 
that I should see him no more, made me forget all the 
blows of his ruler, and the many punishments I had 
received. 

Poor man! It was in honor of that last session 
that he was arrayed in his finest Sunday garb, and 
now I began to understand why the villagers had 
gathered at the back of the class-room : it was their 
way of telling our master they thanked him for his 
forty years of faithful service, and desired to pay 
their respects to the land whose empire was departing. 

I was busied with these reflections when I heard 
my name called. It was now my turn to recite. Ah ! 
what would I not have given then, had I been able to 
repeat from beginning to end that famous rule for the 
use of participles loudly, distinctly, and without a sin- 
gle mistake ; but I became entangled in the first few 
words, and remained standing at my seat, swinging 
from side to side, my heart swelling. I dared not 
raise my head. Monsieur Hamel was addressing me. 

" I shall not chide thee, my little Franz ; thy pun- 
ishment will be great enough. So it is ! We say to 
ourselves each day, 4 Bah ! I have time enough. I will 
learn to-morrow.' And now see what results. Ah, it 
has ever been the greatest misfortune of our Alsace 
that she was willing to put off learning till to-morrow ! 
And now these foreigners can say to us, and justly, 
4 What ! you profess to be Frenchmen, and can neither 
speak nor write your own language ? ' And in all this, 
my poor Franz, you are not the chief culprit. Each of 
us has something to reproach himself with. 



4 THE LAST LESSON 

" Your parents have not shown enough anxiety about 
having you educated. They preferred to see you spin- 
ning, or tilling the soil, since that brought them in a 
few more sous. And have I nothing with which to re- 
proach myself ? Did I not often send you to water 
my garden when you should have been at your tasks ? 
And if I wished to go trout-fishing, was my conscience 
in the least disturbed when I gave you a holiday ? " 

One topic leading to another, Monsieur Hamel be- 
gan to speak of the French language, saying it was 
the strongest, clearest, most beautiful language in the 
world, which we must keep as our heritage, never al- 
lowing it to be forgotten, telling us that when a nation 
has become enslaved, she holds the key which shall 
unlock her prison as long as she preserves her native 
tongue. 

This lesson was followed by writing. For this oc- 
casion Monsieur Hamel had prepared some copies that 
were entirely new, and upon these were written in 
a beautiful round hand : " France, Alsace ! France y 
Alsace I " 

These words were as inspiring as the sight of the 
tiny flags attached to the rod of our desks. It was 
good to see how each one applied himself, and how 
silent it was ! Not a sound save the scratching of pens 
as they touched our papers. 

From time to time, looking up from my page, I saw 
Monsieur Hamel, motionless in his chair, his eyes 
riveted upon each object about him, as if he desired 
to fix in his mind, and forever, every detail of his lit- 
tle school. Remember that for forty years he had 
been constantly at his post, in that very school-room, 
facing the same playground. Little had changed. The 
desks and benches were polished and worn, through 



THE LAST LESSON 5 

long use ; the walnut-trees in the playground had 
grown taller ; and the hop-vine he himself had planted 
curled its tendrils about the windows, running even 
to the roof. What anguish must have filled the poor 
man's heart, as he thought of leaving all these things ! 
For on the morrow he was to leave the country, never 
to return. Nevertheless his courage did not falter ; not 
a single lesson was omitted. After writing came his- 
tory, and then the little ones sang their " Ba, Be, Bi, 
Bo, Bu," together. Old Hauser, at the back of the 
room, had put on his spectacles, and, holding his 
primer in both hands, was spelling out the letters with 
the little ones. He too was absorbed in his task ; his 
voice trembled with emotion, and it was so comical 
to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and to cry at 
the same moment. Ah ! never shall I forget that last 
lesson ! 

Suddenly the church-clock struck twelve, and then 
the Angelus was heard. 

At the same moment, a trumpet-blast under our 
window announced that the Prussians were returning 
from drill. Monsieur Hamel rose in his chair. He was 
very pale, but never before had he seemed to me so 
tall as at that moment. 

"My friends — " he said, "my friends — I — I — " 

But something choked him. He could not finish. 

Then he took a piece of chalk, and grasping it with 
all his strength, wrote in his largest hand, — ■ 

"Vive la France!" 

He remained standing at the blackboard, his head 
resting against the wall. He did not speak again, but 
a motion of his hand said to us, — 

" That is all. You are dismissed.' 



COMMENCEMENT 

SARAH WINTER KELLOGG 

It was Commencement at one of our colleges. On 
the very front row I found a seat next to a little girl 
who moved along to make room for me. 

"There's going to be a great crowd," she said to 
me. 

" Yes," I replied ; " people always like to see how 
school-boys are made into men." 

Her face beamed with pleasure and pride as she 
said : — 

" My brother 's going to graduate ; he 's going to 
speak; I 've brought these flowers to throw to him." 

They were not greenhouse favorites ; just old-fash- 
ioned, domestic flowers, such as we associate with the 
dear grandmothers ; "but," I thought, " they will seem 
sweet and beautiful to him for his little sister's sake." 

"That is my brother," she went on, pointing with 
her nosegay. 

" The one with the light hair?" I asked. 

" Oh, no," she said, smiling and shaking her head 
in innocent reproof ; " not that homely one ; that hand- 
some one with brown, wavy hair. There ! he 's got his 
hand up to his head now. You see him, don't you ? " 

In an eager way she looked from me to him, and 
from him to me, as if some important fate depended 
upon my identifying her brother. 

" I see him," I said. " He 's a very good-looking 
brother." 



COMMENCEMENT 7 

"Yes, he is beautiful," she said, with artless de- 
light; "and he 's so good, and he studies so hard! He 
has taken care of me ever since mamma died. Here is 
his name on the program. He is not the valedictorian, 
but he has an honor, for all that. 

" His oration is a real good one, and he says it 
beautifully. He has said it to me a great many times. 
I 'most know it by heart. Oh ! it begins so pretty and 
so grand. This is the way it begins,' ' she added, en- 
couraged by the interest she must have seen in my 
face: " 4 Amid the permutations and combinations of 
the actors and the forces which make up the great 
kaleidoscope of history, we often find that a turn of 
Destiny's hand — ' " 

" Why, bless the baby ! " I thought, looking down 
into her bright, proud face. I can't describe how very 
odd and elfish it did seem to have those sonorous 
words rolling out of the smiling, infantile mouth. 

As the exercises progressed, and approached nearer 
and nearer the effort on which all her interest was con- 
centrated, my little friend became excited and rest- 
less. Her eyes grew larger and brighter, two deep-red 
spots glowed on her cheeks. 

" Now, it 's his turn," she said, turning to me a face 
in which pride and delight and anxiety seemed about 
equally mingled. 

But when the overture was played through, and his 
name was called, the child seemed, in her eagerness, 
to forget me and all the earth beside him. She rose to 
her feet and leaned forward for a better view of her be- 
loved, as he mounted to the speaker's stand. I knew 
by her deep breathing that her heart was throbbing in 
her throat. I knew, too, by the way her brother came 
up the steps and to the front, that he was trembling. 



8 COMMENCEMENT 

The hands hung limp ; his face was pallid, and the lips 
blue as with cold. I felt anxious. The child, too, 
seemed to discern that things were not well with him. 
Something like fear showed in her face. 

He made an automatic bow. Then a bewildered, 
struggling look came into his face; then a helpless 
look ; and then he stood staring vacantly, like a som- 
nambulist, at the waiting audience. The moments of 
painful suspense went by, and still he stood as if struck 
dumb. I saw how it was; he had been seized with 
stage fright. 

Alas, little sister ! She turned her large, dismayed 
eyes upon me. " He 's forgotten it," she said. 

Then a swift change came into her face ; a strong, 
determined look ; and on the funeral-like silence of the 
room broke the sweet, brave, child- voice : — 

" Amid the permutations and combinations of the 
actors and the forces which make up the great kaleido- 
scope of history, we often find that a turn of Destiny's 
hand—" 

Everybody about us turned and looked. The breath- 
less silence; the sweet, childish voice; the childish 
face ; the long, unchildlike words, produced a weird 
effect. 

But the help had come too late ; the unhappy brother 
was already staggering in humiliation from the stage. 
The band quickly struck up, and waves of lively music 
rolled out to cover the defeat. 

I gave the little sister a glance in which I meant to 
show the intense sympathy I felt ; but she did not see 
me. Her eyes, swimming with tears, were on her 
brother's face. I put my arm around her, but she was 
too absorbed to heed the caress, and before I could 
appreciate her purpose, she was on her way to the 



COMMENCEMENT 9 

shame-stricken young man sitting with a face like a 
statue's. 

When he saw her by his side the set face relaxed, 
and a quick mist came into his eyes. The young men 
got closer together to make room for her. She sat 
down beside him, laid her flowers on his knee, and 
slipped her hand into his. 

I could not keep my eyes from her sweet, pitying 
face. I saw her whisper to him, he bending a little to 
catch her words. Later I found out that she was ask- 
ing him if he knew his "piece" now, and that he 
answered yes. 

When the young man next on the list had spoken, 
and while the band was playing, the child, to the broth- 
er's great surprise, made her way up the stage steps, 
and pressed through the throng of professors and trus- 
tees and distinguished visitors, up to the college presi- 
dent. 

" If you please, sir," she said with a little courtesy, 
" will you and the trustees let my brother try again ? 
He knows his piece now." 

For a moment the president stared at her through 
his gold-bowed spectacles, and then, appreciating the 
child's petition, he smiled on her, and went down and 
spoke to the young man who had failed. 

So it happened that when the band had again ceased 

playing, it was briefly announced that Mr. 

would now deliver his oration — " Historical Par- 
allels." 

A ripple of heightened and expectant interest passed 
over the audience, and then all sat stone still, as 
though fearing to breathe lest the speaker might again 
take fright. No danger ! The hero in the youth was 
aroused He went at his " piece " with a set purpose to 



10 COMMENCEMENT 

conquer, to redeem himself, and to bring the smile 
back to the child's tear-stained face. I watched the 
face during the speaking. The wide eyes, the parted 
lips, the whole rapt being said that the breathless audi- 
ence was forgotten, that her spirit was moving with 
his. 

And when the address was ended, with the ardent 
abandon of one who catches enthusiasm in the reali- 
zation that he is fighting down a wrong judgment and 
conquering a sympathy, the effect was really thrilling. . 
That dignified audience broke into rapturous applause ; 
bouquets intended for the valedictorian rained like a 
tempest. And the child who had helped to save the 
day — that one beaming little face, in its pride and 
gladness, is something to be forever remembered. 



A TROOP OP THE GUARD RIDES 
FORTH TO-DAY 1 

HERMANN HAGEDORN 

There 's trampling of hoofs in the busy street, 
There 's clanking of sabers on floor and stair, 
There 's sound of restless, hurrying feet, 
Of voices that whisper; of lips that entreat, 

Will they live, will they die, will they strive, will 
they dare ? 
The houses are garlanded, flags flutter gay, 
For a Troop of the Guard rides forth to-day. 

Oh, the troopers will ride and their hearts will leap, 
When it's shoulder to shoulder and friend to 
friend — 
But it 's some to the pinnacle, some to the deep, 
And some in the glow of their strength to sleep, 

And for all its a fight to the tale's far end. 
And it 's each to his goal, nor turn nor sway, 
When the Troop of the Guard rides forth to-day. 

The dawn is upon us, the pale light speeds 

To the zenith with glamour and golden dart. 

On, up ! Boot and saddle ! Give spurs to your steeds ! 

There 's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, 

With the pain of the world in its cavernous heart. 

Ours be the triumph ! Humanity calls ! 

Life 's not a dream in the clover ! 

On to the walls, on to the walls, 

On to the walls, and over ! 

1 Class-poem read before the Graduating Class of Harvard College, 
June 21, 1907. 



12 A TROOP OF THE GUARD RIDES FORTH 

The wine is spent, the tale is spun, 

The revelry of youth is done. 

The horses prance, the bridles clink, 

While maidens fair in bright array 
With us the last sweet goblet drink, 

Then bid us, " Mount and away ! " 

Into the dawn, we ride, we ride, 
Fellow and fellow, side by side ; 
Galloping over the field and hill, 
Over the marshland, stalwart still, 
Into the forest's shadowy hush, 

Where specters walk in sunless day, 
And in dark pool and branch and bush 

The treacherous will-o'-the-wisp lights play. 

Out of the wood 'neath the risen sun, 

Weary we gallop, one and one, 

To a richer hope and a stronger foe 

And a hotter fight in the fields below — 

Each man his own slave, each his lord, 

For the golden spurs and the victor's sword ! 

An anxious generation sends us forth 

On the far conquest of the thrones of might. 
From west to east, from south to north, 

Earth's children, weary-eyed from too much light, 
Cry from their dream-forsaken vales of pain, 
" Give us our gods, give us our gods again ! " 
A lofty and relentless century, 
Gazing with Argus eyes, 
Has pierced the very inmost halls of faith ; 
And left no shelter whither man may flee 

From the cold storms of night and lovelessness 
and death. 



A TROOP OF THE GUARD RIDES FORTH 13 

Old gods have fallen and the new must rise ! 

Out of the dust of doubt and broken creeds, 
The sons of those who cast men's idols low 

Must build up for a hungry people's needs 
New gods, new hopes, new strength to toil and grow ; 

Knowing that nought that ever lived can die, — 
No act, no dream but spreads its sails, sublime, 
Sweeping across the visible seas of time 

Into the treasure-haven of eternity. 

The portals are open, the white road leads 

Through thicket and garden, o'er stone and sod. 

On, up ! Boot and saddle ! Give spurs to your steeds ! 

There 's a city beleaguered that cries for men's deeds, 

For the faith that is strength and the love that is 

God! 

On through the dawning ! Humanity calls ! 

Life 's not a dream in the clover ! 
On to the walls, on to the walls, 
On to the walls and over ! 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 1 

MYRA KELLY 

It was the week before Christmas, and the First- 
Reader Class had, almost to a man, decided on the 
gifts to be lavished on "Teacher." But Morris Mo- 
gilewsky, whose love for Teacher was far greater than 
the combined loves of all the other children, had as 
yet no present to bestow. The knowledge saddened 
all his hours and was the more maddening because it 
could in no wise be shared by Teacher, who noticed 
his altered bearing and tried with all sorts of artful 
beguilements to make him happy and at ease. But 
her efforts served only to increase his unhappiness and 
his love. And he loved her ! Oh, how he loved her ! 
Since first his dreading eyes had clung for a breath's 
space to her " like man's shoes " and had then crept 
timidly up to her " light face," she had been mistress 
of his heart of hearts. That was more than three 
months ago. And well he remembered the day ! 

His mother had washed him horribly, and had 
taken him into the big, red school-house, so familiar 
from the outside, but so full of unknown terrors 
within. 

He was then dragged through long halls and up 
tall stairs by a large boy, who spoke to him disdain- 
fully as " greenie," so that his spirit was quite broken 
and his nerves were all unstrung when he was pushed 

1 From " Little Citizens." By permission of Doubleday, Page & 
Co., N.Y. 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 15 

into a room full of bright sunshine and of children 
who laughed at his frightened little face. The sun- 
shine smote his timid eyes, the laughter smote his 
timid heart, and he turned to flee. But the door was 
shut, the large boy gone, and despair took him for its 
own. 

Down upon the floor he dropped, and wailed, and 
wept, and kicked. It was then that he heard, for the 
first time, the voice which now he loved. 

" Why, my dear little chap, you must n't cry like 
that. What 's the matter ? " 

The hand was gentle and the question kind, and 
these, combined with a faint perfume suggestive of 
drug-stores and barber-shops, — but nicer than either, 
— made him uncover his hot little face. Kneeling 
beside him was a lady, and he forced his eyes to that 
perilous ascent; from shoes to skirt, from skirt to 
jumper, from jumper to face, they trailed in dread 
uncertainty, but at the face they stopped. They had 
found — rest. 

Morris allowed himself to be gathered in to the 
lady's arms, and held upon her knee, and when his 
sobs no longer rent the very foundations of his pink 
and wide-spread tie, he answered her question in a 
voice as soft as his eyes, and as gently sad. 

"I ain't so big, und I don't know where is my 
mamma." 

Thereafter he had been the first to arrive every 
morning, and the last to leave every afternoon ; and 
under the care of Teacher, his liege lady, he had 
grown in wisdom and love and happiness. But the 
greatest of these was love. And now, when the other 
boys and girls were planning surprises and gifts of 
price for Teacher, his hands were as empty as his 



16 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 

heart was full. Appeal to his mother met with denial 
prompt and energetic. 

" For what you go und make, over Christmas, 
presents ? " 

44 All the other fellows buys her presents, und I 'm 
loving mit her too ; it 's polite I gives her presents 
the while I 'm got such a kind feeling over her," said 
Morris stoutly. 

44 Well, we ain't got no money for buy nothings," 
said Mrs. Mogilewsky sadly. 44 No money, und your 
papa, he has all times a scare he should n't to get no 
more." 

So Morris was helpless, his mother poor, and 
Teacher all unknowing. 

And now the great day, the Friday before Christ- 
mas, came, and the school was, for the first half -hour, 
quite mad. Room 18, generally so placid and so 
peaceful, was a howling wilderness full of brightly 
colored, quickly changing groups of children, all 
whispering, all gurgling, and all hiding queer bundles. 

Isidore Belchatosky was the first to lay tribute be- 
fore Teacher. He came forward with a sweet smile 
and a tall candlestick, and Teacher, for a moment, 
could not be made to understand that all that length 
of bluish-white china was really hers 44 for keeps." 

44 It 's to-morrow holiday," Isidore assured her ; 
44 and we gives you presents, the while we have a kind 
feeling. Candlesticks could to cost twenty-five cents." 

44 It's a lie. Three for ten," said a voice in the 
background ; but Teacher hastened to respond to Isi- 
dore's test of her credulity : — 

44 Indeed, they could. This candlestick could have 
cost fifty cents, and it 's just what I want. It is very 
good of you to bring me a present." 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 17 

u You 're welcome," said Isidore, retiring. 

And then, the ice being broken, the First-Reader 
Class in a body rose to cast its gifts on Teacher's 
desk, and its arms around Teacher's neck. 

Nathan Horowitz presented a small cup and saucer ; 
Isidore Applebaum bestowed a large calendar for the 
year before last ; Sadie Gonorowsky brought a basket 
containing a bottle of perfume, a thimble, and a bright 
silk handkerchief ; Sarah Schrodsky offered a pen- 
wiper and a yellow celluloid collar-button, and Eva 
Kidansky gave an elaborate nasal douche, under the 
pleasing delusion that it was an atomizer. 

Jacob Spitsky pressed forward with a tortoise-shell 
comb of terrifying aspect and hungry teeth, and an 
air showing forth a determination to adjust it in its 
destined place. Teacher meekly bowed her head; 
Jacob forced his offering into her long-suffering hair, 
and then retired with the information, " Costs fifteen 
cents, Teacher." 

Meanwhile the rush of presentation went steadily 
on. Cups and saucers came in wild profusion. The 
desk was covered with them. The soap, too, became 
urgently perceptible. It was of all sizes, shapes and 
colors, but of uniform and dreadful power of perfume. 
Teacher's eyes filled with tears — of gratitude — as 
each new piece or box was pressed against her nose, 
and Teacher's mind was full of wonder as to what she 
could ever do with it all. Bottles of perfume vied with 
one another and with the all-pervading soap, until the 
air was heavy and breathing grew laborious. But pride 
swelled the hearts of the assembled multitude. No 
other Teacher had so many helps to the toilet. None 
other was so beloved. 
k When the waste-paper basket had been twice filled 



18 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 

with wrappings and twice emptied ; when order was 
emerging out of chaos ; when the Christmas-tree had 
been disclosed and its treasures distributed, a timid 
hand was laid on Teacher's knee and a plaintive voice 
whispered, " Say, Teacher, I got something for you " ; 
and Teacher turned quickly to see Morris, her dearest 
boy charge. 

" Now, Morris dear," said Teacher, " you should n't 
have troubled to get me a present ; you know you and 
I are such good friends that — " 

"Teacher, yiss, ma'an," Morris interrupted, in a 
bewitching and rising inflection of his soft and plain- 
tive voice. " I know you got a kind feeling by me, 
and I couldn't to tell even how I got a kind feeling 
by you. Only it 's about that kind feeling I should 
give you a present. I did n't " — with a glance at the 
crowded desk — "I didn't to have no soap nor no 
perfumery, and my mamma she could n't to buy none 
by the store ; but, Teacher, I 'm got something awful 
nice for you by present." 

" And what is it, deary ? " asked the already rich 
and gifted young person. " What is my new pres- 
ent?" 

" Teacher, it 's like this : I don't know ; I ain't so 
big like I could to know," — and, truly, God pity 
him ! he was passing small, — " it ain't for boys — 
it 's for ladies. Over yesterday on the night comes my 
papa to my house, und he gives my mamma the pres- 
ent. Sooner she looks on it, sooner she has a awful 
glad ; in her eyes stands tears, und she says, like that, 
— out of Jewish, — 4 Thanks,' un' she kisses my papa 
a kiss. Und my papa, how he is polite ! he says, — 
out of Jewish, too, — • You 're welcome, all right,' un' 
he kisses my mamma a kiss. So my mamma, she sets 



A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 19 

und looks on the present, und all the time she looks 
she has a glad over it. Und I did n't to have no soap, 
so you could to have the present.'' 

" But did your mother say I might ? " 

"Teacher, no ma'an; she didn't say like that, und 
she did n't to say not like that. She did n't to know. 
But it 's for ladies, un' I did n't to have no soap. You 
could to look on it. It ain't for boys." 

And here Morris opened a hot little hand and dis- 
closed a tightly folded pinkish paper. As Teacher 
read it he watched her with eager, furtive eyes, dry 
and bright, until hers grew suddenly moist, when his 
promptly followed suit. As she looked down at hiin, 
he made his moan once more : — 

" It 's for ladies, and I did n't to have no soap." 

" But Morris, dear," cried teacher, unsteadily, 
laughing a little, and yet not far from tears, " this is 
ever so much nicer than soap — a thousand times bet- 
ter than perfume ; and you 're quite right, it is for 
ladies, and I never had one in all my life before. I am 
so very thankful." 

" You 're welcome, all right. That 's how my papa 
says; it's polite. Und my mamma," he said insinu- 
atingly, — " she kisses my papa a kiss." 

"Well? "said Teacher. 

" Well," said Morris, " you ain't never kissed me 
a kiss, und I seen how you kissed Eva Gonorowsky. 
I 'm loving mit you too. Why don't you never kiss 
me a kiss?" 

"Perhaps," suggested teacher mischievously, "per- 
haps it ain't for boys." 

" Teacher, yiss, ma'an ; it 's for boys," he cried as 
he felt her arms about him, and saw that in her eyes, 
too, " stands tears." 



20 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY 

Late that night Teacher sat in her pretty room and 
reviewed her treasures. She saw that they were very 
numerous, very touching, very whimsical, and very 
precious. But above all the rest she cherished a frayed 
and pinkish paper, rather crumpled and a little soiled. 
For it held the love of a man and a woman and a little 
child, and the magic of a home, for Morris Mogi- 
lewsky's Christmas present for ladies was the receipt 
for a month's rent for a room on the top floor of a 
Monroe Street tenement. 






LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 1 

MYRA KELLY 

An organized government requires a cabinet, and, 
during the first weeks of her reign over Room 18, Miss 
Bailey set about providing herself with aides and ad- 
visers. 

Gradually, from the rank and file of candidates, 
— from the well-meaning but clumsy ; from the com- 
petent but dishonest ; from the lazy, and from the 
rash, — she selected three loyal and devoted men to 
share her task of ruling. They were Morris Mogilew- 
sky, Prime Minister and Monitor of the Gold-Fish 
Bowl ; Nathan Spiderwitz, Councillor of the Exchequer 
and Monitor of Window-Boxes ; and Patrick Brennan, 
Commander-in-Chief of the Forces and Leader of the 
Line. 

The members of this cabinet, finding themselves 
raised to such high places by the pleasure of their 
sovereign, kept watchful eyes upon her. For full well 
they knew that cruelest of all the laws of the Board 
of Education, which decrees : " That the marriage of 
a female teacher shall constitute resignation." This 
ruling had deprived them of a Kindergarten teacher 
of transcendent charm and had made them as watch- 
ful of Miss Bailey as a bevy of maiden aunts could 
have been. Losing her, they would lose love and power, 
and love and power are sweet. 

1 From " Little Citizens." By permission of Doubleday, Page & 
Co., N.Y. 



22 LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 

Morris was the first to discover definite grounds for 
uneasiness. He met his cherished Miss Bailey walking 
across Grand Street on a rainy morning, and the um- 
brella which was protecting her beloved head was held 
by a tall stranger in a long and baggy coat. 

After circling incredulously about this tableau, 
Morris dashed off to report to his colleagues. He found 
Patrick and Nathan in the midst of an exciting game 
of craps ; but his pattering feet warned them of danger, 
so they pocketed their dice and turned to hear his 
news. 

" Say," he panted ; " I seen Teacher mit a man." 

44 No ! " said Patrick, aghast. 

44 It 's a lie ! " cried Nathan ; " it 's a lie ! " 

44 No ; it 's no lie," said Morris, with a sob half of 
breathlessness and half of sorrow ; " I seen her for 
sure. Und the man carries umbrellas over her mit 
loving looks." 

" Ah, g'wan," drawled Patrick ; 44 you 're crazy. 
You don't know what you 're talking about." 

" Sure do I," cried Morris " I had once a auntie 
what was loving mit a awful stylish salesman, — he 's 
now floor- walkers — und I see how they makes." 

44 Well," said Patrick, " I had a sister Mary and 
she married the milkman, so I know, too. But um- 
brellas does n't mean much." 

44 But the loving looks," Morris insisted. 44 My 
auntie makes such looks on the salesman, — he 's now 
floor-walkers, — und sooner she marries mit him." 

44 Say, Patrick," suggested Nathan ; "I'll tell you 
what to do. You ask her if she 's goin' to get married." 

46 Naw," said Patrick. " Let Morris ask her. She 'd 
tell him before she 'd tell any of us. She 's been soft 
on him ever since Christmas. Say, Morris, do you 



LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 23 

hear? You 've got to ask Teacher if she 's going to get 
married." 

" Oo-o-oh ! I dassent. It ain't polite how you says," 
cried Morris in his shocked little voice. " It ain't po- 
lite you asks like that. It 's fierce." 

" Well, you 've got to do it, anyway," said Patrick 
darkly, " and you 've got to do it soon, and you 've got 
to let us hear you." 

"It's fierce," protested Morris; but he was over- 
ruled by the dominant spirit of Patrick Brennan, that 
grandson of the kings of Munster and son of the 
policeman on the beat. 

His opportunity found him on the very next morn- 
ing, when Isidore Wishnewsky spread before Teacher's 
admiring eyes a Japanese paper napkin. 

" My sister," he explained. " She gets it to a wed- 
dinge. She gives it to me und I gives it to you. I don't 
need it. She goes all times on weddinges. Most all 
her younge lady friends gettin' married; ain't it 
funny?" 

At the fateful word " married," the uneasy cabinet 
closed in about Teacher. Their three pairs of eyes 
clung to her face as Isidore repeated, — 

44 All gettin' married. Ain't it funny ? " 

" Well, no, dear," answered Teacher musingly, 
44 You know nearly all young ladies do it." 

Patrick took a pin from Teacher's desk and kneeled 
to tie his shoe-string. 

Clearly this was Morris's opening. Patrick pierced 
his soul with a glance of scorn and simultaneously 
buried the pin in his quaking leg. Thus encouraged, 
Morris rushed blindly into the conversation with : — 

44 Say, Teacher, Miss Bailey, be you goin' to get 
married?" 



24 LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 

" Well, perhaps so, Morris. Perhaps I shall, some 
day." 

" Teacher, no, ma'an, Miss Bailey ! " wailed the 
Monitor of the Gold-Fish. " Don't you go and get 
married mit nobody. So you do you could n't be 
Teacher by us no more, and you 're a awful nice 
teacher by little boys. You ain't too big. Und say, 
we 'd feel terrible bad the while you goes and gets 
married mit somebody — terrible bad." 

" Should you really, now ? " asked Teacher, greatly 
pleased. " Well, dear, I too should be lonely without 
you." ^ 

While Teacher was in the lenient mood, Nathan 
forged yet another chain for her securing. 

" Teacher," said he, " you wouldn't never go and 
get married mit nobody 'out saying nothing to some- 
body, would you ? " 

" Indeed, no, my dear," Miss Bailey assured him. 
" When I marry, you and Patrick and Morris shall 
be ushers — monitors, you know. Now are you happy, 
you funny little chaps ? " 

" Teacher, yiss, ma'an," Morris sighed, as the bell 
rang sharply, and the aloof and formal exercise of the 
assembly room began. 

Some days later Teacher arranged to go to a recep- 
tion, and as she did not care to return to her home 
between work and play, she appeared at school in 
rather festive array. Koom 18 was delighted with its 
transformed ruler, but to the board of monitors this 
glory of raiment brought nothing but misery. Every 
twist in the neat coiffure, every fold of the pretty 
dress, every rustle of the invisible silk, every click 
of the high heels, meant the coming abdication of 
Teacher and the disbanding of her cabinet. Just so 



LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 25 

had Patrick's sister Mary looked on the day she wed 
the milkman. Just such had been the outward aspect 
of Morris's auntie on the day of her union to the 
promising young salesman who was now a floor- 
walker and Morris's Uncle Ikey. 

The staff knew that the time for action had really 
come. 

They arranged to escape from Room 18 before three 
o'clock. The Commander-in-Chief feigned a nose- 
bleed, the Prime Minister developed an inward agony, 
and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, after some mo- 
ments of indecision, boldly plucked out a tottering 
tooth and followed — bloody but triumphant — in 
their wake, They found the enemy just as they had 
expected, and Morris, being again elected spokesman, 
stepped forward. 

" Teacher don't wants to go on the party mit you the 
while she ain't got no more that kind feeling over you." 

M What? " cried the astonished Doctor Ingraham. 

" She don't wants to be married mit you." 

" Did Miss Bailey send you with any message to 
me?" 

The question was so fierce that the truth was forced 
from the unwilling lips of the spokesman. 

" No, ma'an — no, sir," they faltered. " On'y that 's 
the feeling what she had. Und so you go away now 
'out seeing Teacher, me und the other fellows we gives 
you FIVE cents." 

The cabinet drew near to hear the answer to this 
suggestion. It puzzled them, for — 

" Xow, look here, boy," said Doctor Ingraham, 
" you 'd better go home and get to bed. You are n't 
well." 

Morris conferred with his colleagues and returned 
with : — 



26 LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 

"We gives you SEVEN cents so you go home now 
'out seeing Teacher. A nickel und two pennies so you 
go now. Und say, Miss Blake could to go by your side. 
She has kind feelings over you." 

" Nonsense," said the man. " When will your 
teacher be down?" 

"She ain't coming at all. She has no more feel- 
ings. So you goes now we gives you a dime and a 
penny. ELEVEN cents. We ain't got it ; on'y we 
could to get. Teacher gives me all times pennies." 

Just as the stranger was wondering how much of 
truth these extraordinary children knew, Teacher ap- 
peared upon the scene, 

The cabinet crept back to reconnoitre. 

Said Morris : " She 's lovin' mit him und he 's lov- 
ing mit her. They 've got loving looks. I had once a 
auntie — " 

This was too much for the torn spirit of the Leader 
of the Line. He laid violent hands — and feet — upon 
the Monitor of Gold-Fish. Morris's prolonged yell 
of agonized surprise brought Teacher flying to the 
rescue. And Teacher brought Doctor Ingraham. 

" I don't know what is mit Patrick," Morris was 
saying. " He hits me a hack somethin' fierce sooner I 
says about mine auntie. Und Nathan, too, is bad boys. 
He says you lies." 

"I?" said Teacher; "I?" 

" Yiss ma'an, that 's how he says. On'y I know you 
don't lies." 

"When, deary?" 

" On your weddinge. You know you says me, und 
Patrick, und Nathan, should be monitors on your 
weddinge when you marries mit him." And Morris 
stretched a pointing finger at the foe. 



LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS 27 

After one radiant glance at Teacher's face, Doctor 
Ingraham possessed himself of the scrubby hand and 
shook it warmly. 

11 And so you shall, old chap," he cried, " so you 
shall. You may be best man if you so desire. Any- 
thing you like." 

" New clothes ? " asked Morris. 

" From stem to stern." 

"Ice cream?" 

« Gallons." 

" Paper napkins mit birds ? " 

" Bushels." 

" Can I mine little sister bring ? " 

" A dozen little sisters if you have them." 

" Can I go in a carriage, down and up ? It 'a 
stylish." 

" You shall have a parade of carriages — one foi 
each sister.* ' 

" Morris," commanded Miss Bailey, " go home." 

When she turned to confront Doctor Ingraham, 
her face was brightly pink and her eyes held a mix- 
ture of embarrassment and anger. 

" Of course I can't explain this," she said. " I 
must simply ask you to believe that he is making a 
dreadful mistake. You will pardon me if I go to see 
little Leah Yonowsky. The twins are reported ill 
again. Good afternoon." 

"Morris," said the rueful enemy, "you've done 
for me, my boy." 

" Won't she go by your side on the party ? " 

" She will not," admitted the doctor. " So you may 
as well trot out Miss Blake and begin to collect my 
eleven cents." 



PASQUALE PASSES 1 

T. A. DALY 

Eosa Beppi she 'sa got 
Temper dat 's so strong an' hot, 
Ees no matter w'at you say, 
Wen she 's start for have her way 
She 's gon' have eet ; you can bat 
Evra cent you got on dat ! 
Theenk she gona mind her Pop ? 
She ain't even 'f raid of cop ! 
Even devil no could stop 
Rosa Beppi w'en she gat 
Foolish theengs eenside her hat. 
Dat 'sa why her Pop ees scare', 
Dat 'sa why he growl an' swear' 
Wen he see herwalkin' out 
Weeth Pasquale from da Sout'. 

Eef, like Beppi, you are com' 
From da countra nort' of Rome, 
You would know dat man from Sout' 
Ain'ta worth for talka 'bout. 
Ees no wondra Beppi swear, 
Growl an' grumbla lika bear. 
W'en da Padre Angelo 
Com' an' see heem actin' so, 
He 's su'prise' an' wanta know. 

1 From " Madrigali." Copyright 1912, by David McKay. By per- 
mission of the publisher, David McKay, Philadelphia, Pa. 



PASQUALE PASSES 29 

Beppi tal him. " Ah ! " he say, 
" I weell talk weeth her to-day, 
So she stoppa walkin' out 
Weeth Pasquale from da Sout V 

Beppi shak' hees head an' sigh. 
He don't theenk eet 's use for try ; 
But da Padre smile an' say : 
" I gon' to speak weeth her to-day." 
Pretta soon, bimeby, he do, — 
Only say wan word or two, — 
But so soon as ees through 
You should see da Rosa ! My ! 
Dere 's a fire from her eye, 
Cutta through you lika knife. 
She ees mad, you bet my life ! 
But no more she 's walkin' out 
Weeth Pasquale from da Sout'. 

Beppi 's gladdest man I know 

'En he see how theengsa go. 
"My! " he say, "I am su 'prise' 

Church can be so strong an' wise." 
" Yes," say Padre Angelo, 
" Church ees always wisa so. 

All I say to her ees dees : 
4 Rosa, I am moocha please' 

Dat at las' you gotta beau. 

He ain't verra good wan, no ; 

But you need no minda dat 

Seence he 's best dat you can gat. 

So I 'm glad for see you out 

Weeth Pasquale from da Sout'." 



DA THIEF 1 

T. A. DALY 

Eef poor man goes 
An' steal sa rose 

Een Juna-time — 
Wan leetla rose — 
You gon' su'pose 

Dat dat 's a crime ? 

Eh ! w'at ? Den taka look at me, 
For here bayf ore your eyes you see 
Wan thief, dat ees so glad an' proud 
He gona brag of eet out loud ! 
So mooeha good I do, an' feel, 
From dat wan leetle rose I steal, 
Dat eef I gon' to jail to-day 
Dey no could tak' my joy away. 
So, leesen ! here ees how eet come' : 
Las' night w'en I am walkin' home 
From work een hotta ceety street 
Ees sudden com' a smal so sweet 
Eet maka heaven een my nose — 
I look an' dere I see da rose ! 
Not wan, but manny, fine an' tall, 
Dat peep at me above da wall. 
So, too, I close my eyes an' find 
Anudder peecture een my mind ; 

1 From " Madrigali." Copyright 1912, by David McKay. By per- 
mission of the publisher, David McKay, Philadelphia, Pa. 



DA THIEF 31 

I see a house dat 's small an' hot 
Where many pretta theengs ees not, 
Where leetla woman, good an' true, 
Ees work so hard da whole day through, 
She 's too wore out, w'en corn's da night, 
For smile an' mak' da housa bright. 

But, presto ! now I 'm home, an' she 
Ees seettin' on da step weeth me. 
Bambino, sleepin' on her breast, 
Ees nevva know more sweeta rest, 
An' nevva was sooch glad su'prise 
Like now ees shina from her eyes ; 
An' all bayeause to-night she wear 
Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. 
She ees so please' ! Eet mak' me feel 
I shoulda sooner learned to steal ! 

Eef " thief's " my name 
I feel no shame ; 

Eet ees no crime — 
Dat rose I got. 
Eh! w'at? O! not 

Een Juna-time ! 



THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 1 

JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM 

"I will not go to that old dancing-school again, and 
I tell you that I won't, and I won't. And I won't ! " 

" That will do, Richard. Go and find your pumps. 
Now, get right up from the floor, and if you scratch 
the Morris chair I shall speak to your father. Are n't 
you ashamed of yourself? Get right up — you must 
expect to be hurt, if you pull so. Come, Richard! I 
am sorry I hurt your elbow, but you know very well 
you aren't crying for that at all. Come along!" 

His sister flitted by the door. 

" Hurry up, Dick, or we '11 be late," she called back 
sweetly, secure in the knowledge that if such virtuous 
accents maddened him still further, no one could blame 
her. 

His rage justified her faith. 

14 Oh, you shut up, will you! " he snarled. 

She looked meek, and listened to his deprivation of 
dessert for the rest of the week, with an air of love for 
the sinner and hatred for the sin. 

A desperately patient monologue from the next room 
indicated the course of events there. 

44 Your necktie is on the bed. No, you can not. You 
will have to wear one. Because no one ever goes with- 
out. I don't know why. 

44 Many a boy would be thankful and glad to have 

1 From " Madness of Philip and Other Tales." By permission of 
the author and Doubleday, Page & Co., N.Y. 



THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 33 

silk stockings. Nonsense — your legs are warm enough. 
I don't believe you. Now, Richard, howperf ectly ridicu- 
lous ! There is no left and right to stockings. 

"Now take your pumps and find the plush bag. 
Well, how do you want to carry them ? Why, I never 
heard of anything so silly ! I don't care if they do 
carry skates that way — skates are not slippers. Very 
well, then, only hurry up. I should think you 'd be 
ashamed to have them dangling around your neck 
that way. 

" Now, here 's your coat." 

He slammed the door till the piazza shook, and 
strode along beside his scandalized sister, the pumps 
flopping noisily on his shoulders. 

" Please stop, Dick Pendleton ; you 're a mean old 
thing. I should think you 'd be ashamed to carry your 
slippers that way. If you jump in that wet place and 
spatter me I shall tell papa — You will care, when I 
tell him, just the same ! You 're just as bad as you can 
be. I shan't speak with you to-day ! " 

Acquaintances met them and passed, unconscious of 
anything but the sweet picture of a sister and a brother 
and a plush bag going daintily and dutifully to dancing- 
school ; but his heart was hot at the injustice of the 
world and the hypocritical cant of girls, and her 
thoughts were busy with her indictment of him before 
the family tribunal. 

He jumped over the threshold of the long room and 
aimed his cap at the head of a boy he knew, who was 
standing on one foot to put on a slipper. This de- 
stroyed his friend's balance, and a cheering scuffle fol- 
lowed. Life assumed a more hopeful aspect. 

A shrill whistle called them out in two crowding 
bunches to the polished floor. 



34 THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 

Hoping against hope, he had clung to the beautiful 
thought that Miss Dorothy would be sick, that she had 
missed her train — but no! there she was. 

"Ready, children! Spread out. Take your lines. 
First position. Now ! " 

The large man at the piano, who always looked half 
asleep, thundered out the first bars of the latest waltz, 
and the business began. 

A little breeze of laughing admiration circled the 
row of mothers and aunts. 

" Is n't that too cunning ! Just like a little ballet ! 
Aren't they graceful, really, now! " 

" One, two, three ! One, two, three ! Slide, slide, 
cross ; one, two, three ! 

" One, two, three ! Reverse, two, three ! " 

The whistle shrilled. 

" Ready for the two-step, children ! " 

It was Dicky's custom to hurl himself at the colored 
bunch nearest him, seize a Sabine, so to speak, and 
plunge into the dance. 

Dicky skirted the row of mothers and aunts cau- 
tiously. 

" Oh, look ! Did you ever see anything so sweet! " 
said somebody. 

Involuntarily he turned. There in a corner, all by 
herself, a little girl was gravely performing a dance. 
He stared at her curiously. For the first time, he dis- 
covered that those motions were pretty. 

She was ethereally slender, brown-eyed, brown- 
haired, brown-skinned. A little fluffy white dress 
spread fan-shaped above her knees ; she swayed lightly ; 
one little gloved hand held out her skirt, the other 
marked the time. 

Dicky admired. He advanced and bowed jerkily, 



THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 35 

grasped one of the loops of her sash in the back, and 
stamped gently a moment to get the time. 

" Don't they do it well, though ! See those little 
things near the door ! " he caught as they went by ; 
and his heart swelled with pride. 

" What 's your name?" he asked abruptly after the 
dance. 

" Thethelia," she lisped, and shook her hair over 
her cheek. She was very shy. 

"Mine's Kichard Carr Pendleton. My father's a 
lawyer. What 's yours?" 

"I — I don't know!" she gasped, obviously con- 
sidering flight. 

He chuckled delightedly. Was ever such engaging 
idiocy ? She didn't know. Well, well ! 

" Pooh ! " he said grandly, " I guess you know. 
Don't you, really?" 

She looked hopelessly at her fan, and shook her 
head. Suddenly a light dawned in her big eyes. 

" Maybe I know," she murmured. " I gueth I 
know. He — he 'th a really thtate ! " 

" A really state ? That is n't anything — nothing 
at all. A really state?" he frowned at her judi- 
cially. 

Her lip quivered ; she turned and ran away. 

" Here, come back ! " he called, but she was gone. 

" That will do for to-day," said Miss Dorothy ; and 
they surged into the dressing-rooms, to be buttoned 
up and pulled out of draughts and trundled home. 

Dicky ran up to Cecilia as a woman led her out to 
a coupe at the curb, and tugged at the ribbon of her 
cloak. 

"Where do you live? Say, where do you?" he 
demanded. 



36 THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 

Her hair was under the hood, but she hid her face 
behind the woman. 

"I — I don't know," she said softly. 

The woman laughed. 

" Why, yes, you do, Cissy," she reproved. " Tell 
him directly, now." 

She put one tiny finger in her mouth. 

"I — I gueth I live on Chethnut Thtreet," she 
called as the door slammed and shut her in. 

His sister amicably offered him half the plush bag 
to carry, and opened a running criticism of the after- 
noon. 

" What made you dance all the time with Cissy 
Weston? She's an awful baby — a regular 'f raid- 
cat!" 

" She 's the prettiest one there ! " he said. 

His sister stared at him. 

" Why, Dick Pendleton, she is not ! She puts her 
finger in her mouth if anybody says anything at all. 
If you ask her a single thing she does like this : *I 
don't know, I don't know ! ' " 

He smiled scornfully. Did he not know how she 
did it ? Had he not seen that adorable finger, those 
appealing eyes ? 

44 And she can't talk plain ! She lisps — truly she 
does ! " 

Heavens ! Was ever a girl so thick-headed as that 
sister of his ! 

" I should like," he said to his mother the next 
day, " to go and see her." 

" Well, you can go with me to-morrow, perhaps, 
when I call on Mrs. Weston," she assented. 

Seated opposite her on a hassock, their mothers 
chatting across the room, his assurance withered away. 



THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 37 

There was nothing whatever to say. She took refuge 
behind her hair, and they stared uncomfortably at 
each other. 

" If you '11 come over to my house, I '11 show you 
the biggest rat-hole you ever saw — it 's in the sta- 
ble ! " he said desperately. 

" Oh ! Oh ! " she breathed, and her eyes widened. 

" Maybe you can see the rat — he does n't often 
come out, though," he added honestly. 

She shuddered and twisted her fingers violently. 

" No ! No ! I — I hate ratths ! I dreamed about 
one ! I had to have the gath lit ! Oh, no ! " 

At his wits' ends, he played his highest card. If she 
were of mortal flesh and blood, this would interest her. 

" Look here ! Do you know what Boston bull pups 
are? Do you?" 

She nodded vigorously. 

44 Well, you know their tails ? " 

She nodded uncertainly. 

" You know they 're just little stumps ? " 

"Oh, yeth!" she beamed at him. "My Uncle 
Harry 'th got a bulldog. Hith name ith Eli. He liketh 
me." 

44 Well, see here ! Do you know how they make 
their tails short? A man bites 'em off! A fellow 
told me — " 

44 Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " She shuddered off the hassock, 
and rushed to her mother, gasping with horror. 

44 He thayth — he thayth " — words failed her. 
Broken sobs of 44 Eli! Oh, Eli ! " filled the parlor. 

He was dazed, terrified. What had happened? 
What had he done? He was shuffled disgracefully 
from the room ; apologies rose above her sobbing ; the 
door closed behind Dicky and his mother. 



38 THE LITTLE GOD AND DICKY 

At night his mother came and sat for a moment on 
the side of the bed. 

" Papa does n't want you to feel too bad, dear," she 
said. " He knows that you never meant to frighten 
Cecilia so. To-morrow would you like to send her 
some flowers and write her a little note, and tell her 
how sorry you are ? " 

He could not speak, but he seized his mother's hand 
and kissed it up to her lace ruffle. 

In the morning he applied himself to his note of 
apology. Hitherto his mother had been his only cor- 
respondent. He carried her the note with a sense of 
justifiable pride. 

My dear Cecilia : — 

I am going to send you some flowrs. I am sory 
they bite them of but they do. I hope you did not 
haf to lite the gas. we are all well and haveing a good 
time, with much love I am your loving son. 

Richard Carr Pendleton. 

The next morning Richard came down to breakfast 
rapt and quiet. After his egg he spoke. 

"I dreamed that it was dancing-school. And I 
went. And I was the only fellow there. And what do 
you think ? All the little girls were Cecilia ! " 

" You don't suppose he '11 be a poet, do you ? Or a 
genius, or anything ? " his mother inquired anxiously. 

" Lord, no ! " his father returned. " I should say 
he was more likely to be a Mormon !" 

But the Little God knew very well what Dicky 
was, and at that moment was making out his diploma. 



ARDELIA IN ARCADY 1 

JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM 

When first the young lady from the College Settle- 
ment dragged Ardelia from her degradation, she was 
sitting on a dirty pavement and throwing assorted 
refuse at an unconscious policeman. 

" Come here, little girl," said Miss Forsythe invit- 
ingly. "Wouldn't you like to come with me and 
have a nice, cool bath ? " 

" Naw," said Ardelia, in tones rivaling the bath in 
coolness. 

" You wouldn't? Well, wouldn't you like some 
bread and butter and jam? " 

" Wha 's jam? " said Ardelia conservatively. 

"Why, it's — er — marmalade," the young lady 
explained. " All sweet, you know." 

"Naw!" 

" I thought you might like to go on a picnic," said 
the young lady helplessly. " I thought all little girls 
liked—" 

"Picnic? When?" cried Ardelia, moved instantly 
to interest. " I 'm goin' ! " 

44 We '11 go and ask your mother first, won't we ? " 
suggested the young lady, a little bewildered at this 
sudden change of attitude ; and seizing the hand 
which she imagined to have had least to do with the 
refuse, she led Ardelia away — the first stage of her 
journey to Arcady. 

1 From "Madness of Philip and Other Tales." By permission of 
the author and Doubleday, Page & Co., N.Y. 



40 ARDELIA IN ARCADY 

Two days later, arrayed in starched and creaking 
garments which had been made for a slightly smaller 
child, she was transported to the station, and in due 
time Ardelia was in Arcady in the kindly keeping of 
Mrs. Slater. 

" Now, Ardelia, here you are in the country," said 
Miss Forsythe. " Now run right out in the grass and 
pick all the daisies you want. Don't be afraid ; no one 
will drive you off this grass ! " 

The force of this was lost on Ardelia, who had 
never been driven off any whatever ; but she gathered 
that she was expected to walk out into the thick, rank 
growth of the unmowed side yard, and strode down- 
ward obediently. 

" Now pick them ! Pick the daisies ! " cried Miss 
Forsythe excitedly. "I want to see you." 

Ardelia looked blank. 

"Huh?" she said. 

" Gather them. Get a bunch. Oh, you poor child ! 
Mrs. Slater, she does n't know how ! " Miss Forsythe 
was deeply moved, and illustrated by picking imagi- 
nary daisies on the porch. 

Ardelia's quick eyes followed her gestures, and 
stooping, she scooped the heads from three daisies 
and started back with them. Miss Forsythe gasped. 

" No, no, dear ! Pull them up ! Take the stem, too," 
she explained. " Pick the whole flower ! " 

Ardelia bent over again, tugged at a thick-stemmed 
clover, brought it up by the roots, and laid the spoils 
awkwardly on the young lady's lap. 

" Thank you, dear," she said politely, " but I meant 
them for you. I meant you to have a bunch. Don't 
you want them ? " 

" Naw ! " said Ardelia decidedly. 



ARDELIA IN ARCADY 41 

Miss Forsythe's eyes brightened suddenly. 

" I know what you want," she cried, " you 're 
thirsty ! Mrs. Slater, won't you get us some of your 
good, creamy milk ? Don't you want a drink, Arde- 
lia?" 

Ardelia nodded. When Mrs. Slater appeared with 
the foaming yellow glasses she wound her nervous 
little hands about the stem of the goblet and began a 
deep draught. She did not like it, it was hard to swal- 
low, and instinct warned her not to go on with it ; but 
all the thirst of a long morning — Ardelia was used 
to drinking frequently — urged her on, and its icy 
coolness enabled her to finish the glass. She handed 
it back with a deep sigh. The young lady clapped her 
hands. 

" There ! " she cried. " Now, how do you like real 
milk, Ardelia? I declare, you look like another child 
already ! You can have all you want every day — Why, 
what 's the matter ? " 

For Ardelia was growing ghastly pale before them ; 
later, as she lay limp and white on the slippery hair- 
cloth sofa in Mrs. Slater's musty parlor, she heard 
them discussing her situation. 

"There was a lot of Fresh- Air children over at 
Mis' Simms's," her hostess explained, "and they 
'most all of 'em said the milk was too strong. Did 
you ever ! Two or three of 'em was sick, like this one, 
but they got to love it in a little while. She will, too." 

Ardelia shook her head feebly. In a few minutes 
she was asleep. 

When she awoke she was in a strange place. She 
felt scared and lonely. Now that her stomach was 
filled, and her nerves refreshed by her long sleep, she 
was in a condition to realize that, aside from all bod- 



42 ARDELIA IN ARCADY 

ily discomfort, she was sad — very sad. A new, un- 
known depression weighed her down. It grew steadily, 
something was happening, something constant and 
mournful — what? Suddenly she knew. It was a 
steady, recurrent noise, a buzzing, monotonous click. 
Now it rose, now it fell, accentuating the silence dense 
about it. 

" Zig-a-zig! Zig-a-zig ! " then a rest. 

" Zig-a-zig ! Zig-a-zig-a-zig ! " 

She looked restlessly at Mrs. Slater. " Wha' s 'at ? " 
she said. 

" That ? Oh, those are katydids. I s'pose you never 
heard 'em, that 's a fact. Kind o' cozy, I think. Don't 
you like 'em ? " 

" Naw," said Ardelia. 

" Zig-a-zig! Zig-zig! Zig-a-zig-a-zig!" 

Slowly, against the background of this machine-like 
clicking, there grew other sounds, weird, unhappy, 
far away. 

" Wheep, wheep, wheep ! " 

This was a high, thin crying. 

" Buroom ! Brrroom ! broom ! " 

This was low and resonant and solemn. Ardelia 
scowled. 

" Wha 's 'at?" she asked again* 

" That 's the frogs. Bull-frogs and peepers. Never 
heard them, either, did ye ? Well, that 's what they are." 

William Slater took his pipe out of his mouth. 

" Come here, sissy, 'n' I '11 tell y' a story," he said 
lazily. 

Ardelia obeyed, and glancing timorously at the 
shadows, slipped around to his side. 

" Onc't they was an oV feller comin' 'long cross- 
lots, late at night, an' he come to a pond, an' he kinder 



ARDELIA IN ARCADY 43 

stopped up an' says to himself, 4 Wonder how deep 
th' ol' pond is, anyhow ? ' He was just a leetle — well, 
he 'd had a drop too much, y' see — " 

" Had a what?" interrupted Ardelia. 

" He was sort o' rollin' 'round — he did n't know 
just what he was doin' — " 

" Oh ! Jagged ! " said Ardelia comprehendingly. 

" I guess so. An' he heard a voice sing' out, 4 Knee 
deep ! Knee deep ! Knee deep ! ' " 

William gave a startling imitation of the peepers ; 
his voice was a high, shrill wail. 

" ■ Oh, well,' s' he, ' 'f it 's just knee deep I '11 wade 
through,' 'n' he starts in. 

" Just then he hears a big feller singin' out, ' Bet- 
ter go rrround! Better go rrround ! bettergoround ! ' " 

William rolled out a vibrating bass note that star- 
tled the bull-frogs themselves. 

" ' Lord ! ' says he, < is it s' deep 's that ? Well, I '11 
go round, then.' 'N ' off he starts to walk around. 

u ■ Knee deep ! Knee deep ! Knee deep ! ' says the 
peepers. 

" An' there it was. Soon 's he 'd start to do one 
thing, they 'd tell him another. Make up his mind he 
could n't, so he stands there still, they do say, askin* 
'em every night which he better do." 

" Stands where ? " Ardelia looked fearfully behind 
her. 

" Oh, I d' know. Out in that swamp, mebbe." 

Time passed by. 

Suddenly Mr. Slater coughed and arose. " Well, 
guess I '11 be gettin' to bed," he said. 

Mrs. Slater led Ardelia upstairs into a little hot 
room, and told her to get into bed quick, for the lamp 
drew the mosquitoes. 



44 ARDELIA IN ARCADY 

Ardelia kicked off her shoes and approached the 
bed distrustfully. It sank down with her weight and 
snielled hot and queer. Rolling off, she stretched her- 
self on the floor, and lay there disconsolately. Sharp, 
quick stabs from the swarming mosquitoes stung her 
to rage. The eternal chatter of the katydids maddened 
her. She could not sleep. Across the swamp came the 
wail of the peepers. 

" Knee deep ! Knee deep ! Knee deep ! " 

At home the hurdy-gurdy was playing, the women 
were gossiping on every step, the lights were every- 
where, — the blessed fearless gas-lights, — the little 
girls were dancing in the breeze that drew in from 
the East River. 

In the morning Miss Forsythe came over to inquire 
after her charge's health, accompanied by another 
young lady. 

" How do you do, my dear ? " said the new lady 
kindly. " How terribly the mosquitoes have stung 
you ! What makes you stay in the house, and miss 
the beautiful fresh air ? Why, Ethel, she is n't bare- 
foot ! Come here, Ardelia, and take off your shoes 
and stockings directly. Now you '11 know what com- 
fort is," as she unlaced the boots rapidly on the 
porch. 

" Oh, she 's been barefoot in the city," explained 
Miss Forsythe, "but this will be different, of course." 

And so it was, but not in the sense she intended. 
To patter about bare-legged on the clear, safe pave- 
ment, was one thing; to venture unprotected into that 
waving, tripping tangle was another. Suddenly she 
stopped, she shrieked, she clawed the air with out- 
spread fingers. Her face was gray with terror, 

" Oh, gee ! Oh, gee ! " she screamed. 



ARDELIA IN ARCADY 45 

" What is it, Ardelia, what is it ? " they cried lift- 
ing up their skirts in sympathy ; " a snake ? " 

Mrs. Slater rushed out, seized Ardelia, half rigid 
with fear, and carried her to the porch. They elicited 
from her as she sat with her feet tucked under her 
and one hand convulsively clutching Mrs. Slater's 
apron that something had rustled by her " down at 
the bottom," that it was slippery, that she had stepped 
on it, and wanted to go home. 

"Toad," explained Mrs. Slater briefly. "Only a 
little hop-toad, Delia, that would n't harm a baby, let 
alone a big girl nine years old, like you." 

But Ardelia, chattering with nervousness, wept for 
her shoes, and sat high and dry in a rocking-chair for 
the rest of the morning. 

"She's a queer child," Mrs. Slater confided to the 
young ladies. " 'S morning she asked me when did the 
parades go by. I told her there wa'n't any but the 
circus, an' that had been already. I tried to cheer 
her up, sort of, with that Fresh-Air picnic of yours to- 
morrow, Miss Forsythe, and s' she, ' O, the Dago pic- 
nic,' s' she, 'will they have Tony's band? ' 

" She don't seem to take any int'rest in th' farm, 
like those Fresh- Air children, either. I showed her the 
hens an' the eggs, an' she said it was a lie about the 
hen's layin' 'em. 'What d' you take me for?' s' she. 
The idea ! Then Henry milked the cow, to show her, 
— she would n't believe that, either, — and with the 
milk streamin' down before her, what do you s'pose 
she said ? ' You put it in ! ' s r she. I never should 'a' 
believed that, Miss Forsythe, if I had n't heard it." 

" Oh, she '11 get over it," said Miss Forsythe easily, 
" just wait a few days. Good-by, Ardelia, eat a good 
supper." 



46 ARDELIA IN ARCADY 

The morning dawned fresh and fair; the homely 
barnyard noises brought a smile to Miss Forsythe's 
sympathetic face, as she waited for Ardelia to join her 
in a drive to the station. But Ardelia did not smile. 
Her cramped feet wearied for the smooth pavements, 
her ears hungered for the dear familiar din. She scowled 
at the winding, empty road ; she shrieked at the pass- 
ing oxen. 

At the station Miss Forsythe shook her limp little 
hand. 

" Good-by, dear," she said. " I '11 bring the other 
little children back with me. You '11 enjov that. Good- 
by." 

" I 'm comin', too," said Ardelia. 

14 Why — no, dear — you wait for us. You 'd only 
turn around and come right back, you know." 

44 Come back nothin'," said Ardelia doggedly. 44 1 'm 
goin' home." 

44 Why — why, Ardelia ! Don't you really like 
it?" 

" Naw, it 's too hot." 

Miss Forsythe stared. 

46 But, Ardelia, you don't want to go back to that 
horrible smelly street? Not truly?" 

"Betcher life I do!" 

The train steamed in ; Miss Forsythe mounted the 
steps uneasily, Ardelia clinging to her hand. 

44 It 's so lovely and quiet," the young lady pleaded. 

Ardelia shuddered. Again she seemed to hear that 
fiendish, mournful wailing: — 

44 Knee deep ! Knee deep ! Knee deep ! " 

They rode in silence. But the jar and jolt of the en- 
gine made music in Ardelia's ears ; the crying of the hot 
babies, the familiar jargon of the newsboy : " N' Yawk 



ARDELIA IN ARC AD Y 47 

moyning paypers ! Woyld ! Joynal ! " were a breath 
from home to her little cockney heart. 

They pushed through the great station, they climbed 
the steps of the elevated track, they jingled on a cross- 
town car. And at a familiar corner Ardelia slipped 
loose her hand, uttered a grunt of joy, and Miss For- 
sythe looked for her in vain. She was gone. 

But late in the evening, when the great city turned 
out to breathe, and sat with opened shirt and loosened 
bodice on the dirty steps ; when the hurdy-gurdy exe- 
cuted brassy scales and the lights flared in endless 
sparkling rows ; when the trolley gongs at the corner 
pierced the air, and feet tapped cheerfully down the 
cool stone steps of the beer-shop, Ardelia, bare-footed 
and abandoned, nibbling at a section of bologna sausage, 
secure in the hope of an olive to come, cake-walked in- 
solently with a band of little girls behind a severe 
policeman, mocking his stolid gait, to the delight of 
Old Dutchy, who beamed approvingly at her prancings. 

" Ja, ja, you trow out your feet goot. Some day we 
pay to see you, no? You like to get back already?" 

" Ja, danky shun, Dutchy," she said airily; and as 
the hurdy-gurdy moved away, and the oboe of the Ital- 
ian band began to run up and down the scale, she 
sank upon her cool step, stretched her toes and sighed. 

" Gee! " she murmured, " N'Yawk 's the place ! " 



"SCUM 0' THE EARTH" 

ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER 



At the gate of the West I stand, 
On the isle where the nations throng. 
We call them " scum o' the earth " ; 

Stay, are we doing you wrong, 

Young fellow from Socrates' land? — 

You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong 

Fresh from the master Praxiteles' hand? 

So you 're of Spartan birth ? 

Descended, perhaps, from one of the band — 

Deathless in story and song — 

Who combed their long hair at Thermopylae's pass ? 

Ah, I forget the straits, alas ! 

More tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth, 

That have doomed you to march in our "immigrant 

class" 
Where you're nothing but "scum o' the earth." 

n 

You Pole with the child on your knee, 

What dower bring you to the land of the free? 

Hark! does she croon 

That sad little tune 

That Chopin once found on his Polish lea 

And mounted in gold for you and for me? 



SCUM O' THE EARTH 

Now a ragged young fiddler answers 

In wild Czech melody 

That Dvorak took whole from the dancers. 

And the heavy faces bloom 

In the wonderful Slavik way ; 

The little, dull eyes, the brows a-gloom, 

Suddenly dawn like the day. 

While, watching these folk and their mystery, 

I forget that they 're nothing worth ; 

That Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians, 

And men of all Slavik nations 

Are " polacks " — and " scum o' the earth." 



in 

Genoese boy of the level brow, 

Lad of the lustrous, dreamy eyes 

Astare at Manhattan's pinnacles now 

In the first, sweet shock of a hushed surprise ; 

Within your far-rapt seer's eyes 

I catch the glow of the wild surmise 

That played on the Santa Maria's prow 

In that still gray dawn, 

Four centuries gone, 

When a world from the wave began to rise. 

Oh, it 's hard to foretell what high emprise 

Is the goal that gleams 

When Italy's dreams 

Spread wing and sweep into the skies. 

Caesar dreamed him a world ruled well ; 

Dante dreamed Heaven out of Hell ; 

Angelo brought us there to dwell ; 

And you, are you of a different birth ? — 

You 're only a "dago," — and "scum o' the earth"! 



50 SCUM O' THE EARTH 

IV 

Stay, are we doing you wrong 

Calling you " scum o' the earth," 

Man of the sorrow-bowed head, 

Of the features tender yet strong, — 

Man of the eyes full of wisdom and mystery 

Mingled with patience and dread ? 

Have not I known you in history, 

Sorrow-bowed head ? 

Were you the poet-king, worth 

Treasures of Ophir unpriced ? 

Were you the prophet, perchance, whose art 

Foretold how the rabble would mock 

That shepherd of spirits, erelong, 

Who should carry the lambs on his heart 

And tenderly feed his flock ? 

Man — lift that sorrow-bowed head. 

Lo ! 't is the face of the Christ ! 

The vision dies at its birth. 

You 're merely a butt for our mirth. 

You 're a " sheeny " — and therefore despised 

And rejected as " scum o' the earth." 



Countrymen, bend and invoke 

Mercy for us blasphemers, 

For that we spat on these marvelous folk, 

Nations of darers and dreamers, 

Scions of singers and seers, 

Our peers, and more than our peers. 

" Rabble and refuse," we name them 

And " scum o' the earth," to shame them. 



SCUM O' THE EARTH 51 

Mercy for us of the few, young years, 

Of the culture so callow and rude, 

Of the hands so grasping and crude, 

The lips so ready for sneers 

At the sons of our ancient more-than-peers. 

Mercy for us who dare despise 

Men in whose loins our Homer lies; 

Mothers of men who shall bring to us 

The glory of Titian, the grandeur of Huss ; 

Children in whose frail arms shall rest 

Prophets and singers and saints of the West. 

Newcomers all from the eastern seas, 

Help us incarnate dreams like these. 

Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong. 

Help us to father a nation, strong 

In the comradeship of an equal birth, 

In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth. 



THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 1 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE 

Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there 
was in our army. When Aaron Burr made his dash- 
ing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, he met, 
as the devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright 
young fellow, at some dinner-party, I think. Burr 
marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took 
him a day or two's voyage in his flat boat, and, in 
short, fascinated him. By the time the sail was over, 
Nolan was enlisted body and soul. 

What Burr meant to do I know no more than you. 
Only, when the grand catastrophe came, and one and 
another of the colonels and majors were tried, Nolan 
was proved guilty enough ; yet you and I would never 
have heard of him but that, when the president of the 
court asked him at the close whether he wished to say 
anything to show that he had always been faithful 
to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy, — 

" Damn the United States ! I wish I may never hear 
of the United States again ! " 

Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court, was 
terribly shocked. He called the court into his private 
room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like 
a sheet, to say, — 

"Prisoner, hear the sentence of the court! The 
court decides, subject to the approval of the Pres- 
ident, that you never hear the name of the United 
States again." 

1 Abridged. By courtesy of the publishers, Little, Brown & Co. 



THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 53 

The Secretary of the Navy was requested to put 
Nolan on board a government vessel bound on a long 
cruise, and to direct that he should be only so far 
confined there as to make it certain that he never 
saw or heard of the country. 

The rule adopted on board the ships on which 
Nolan was kept in custody was, I think, transmitted 
from the beginning. No mess liked to have him per- 
manently, because his presence cut off all talk of 
home or of the prospect of return, of politics or let- 
ters, of peace or of war, — cut off more than half the 
talk men liked to have at sea. 

He had almost all the foreign papers that came 
into the ship, sooner or later ; only somebody must 
go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or 
stray paragraph that alluded to America. Among 
some English books acquired at Cape Town on No- 
lan's first voyage, as the devil would order, was " The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel," which they had all of 
them heard of, but which most of them had never 
seen. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk 
of anything national in that. So Nolan was permitted 
to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them 
sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. Well, so it 
happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and 
read to the others. Nobody in the circle knew a line 
of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chiv- 
alry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan 
read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a min- 
ute and drank something, and then began, without a 
thought of what was coming : — 

" Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said — " 



54 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 

It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard 
this for the first time ; but all these fellows did then, 
and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously 
or mechanically : — 

" This is my own, my native land ? " 

Then they all saw something was to pay; but he ex- 
pected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, 
but plunged on : — 

" Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 
From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well — M 

By this time the men were all beside themselves, 
wishing there was any way to make him turn over 
two pages ; but he had not quite presence of mind 
for that. He gagged a little, colored crimson, and 
staggered on : — 

" For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, — 
Despite these titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, — n 

and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but 
started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished 
into his state-room. 

After he came out of his state-room he never was 
the same man again. Generally he had the nervous, 
tired look of a heart-wounded man. 

My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six 
or eight years after the war, on my first voyage after 
I was appointed a midshipman. I first came to un- 
derstand anything about " the man without a coun- 
try " one day when we overhauled a dirty little 



THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 55 

schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was 
sent to take charge of her, and after a few minutes 
he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be 
sent him who could speak Portuguese. Just as the 
captain was sending forward to ask if any of the 
people could, Nolan stepped out and said he should 
be glad to interpret if the captain wished, as he un- 
derstood the language. The captain thanked him, 
fitted out another boat with him, and in this boat it 
was my luck to go. 

There were not a great many of the negroes ; but 
by way of making what there were understand that 
they were free, Vaughan had had their hand-cuffs 
and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience* 
sake, was putting them upon the rascals of the 
schooner's crew. 

" Tell them they are free," said Vaughan ; " and 
tell them that these rascals are to be hanged as soon 
as we can get rope enough." 

Then there was a yell of delight, clinching of fists, 
leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a 
general rush made to the hogshead by way of spon- 
taneous worship of Vaughan. 

"Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I 
will take them all to Cape Palmas." 

This did not answer so well. Vaughan was rather 
disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked 
Nolan eagerly what they said. The drops stood on 
poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men 
down, and said : — 

M They say, ; Not Palmas ! Take us home ; take us 
to our own country ; take us to our own house ; take 
us to our own pickaninnies and our own women ! ' " 

Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while 



56 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 

Nolan struggled through this interpretation. I, who 
did not understand anything of the passion involved 
in it, saw that the very elements were melting with 
fervent heat, and that something was to pay some- 
where. Even the negroes themselves stopped howl- 
ing, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan's 
almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he 
could get words, he said : — 

" Tell them yes, yes, yes ; tell them they shall go 
to the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail 
the schooner through the Great White Desert, they 
shall go home ! " 

And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then 
they all fell to kissing him again. 

But he could not stand it long ; and getting Vaughan 
to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into 
our boat. As we lay back in the stern-sheets, and the 
men gave way, he said to me : — 

" Youngster, let that show you what it is to be with- 
out a family, without a home, and without a country ; 
and if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do 
a thing that shall put a bar between you and your 
family, your home, and your country, pray God in his 
mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. 
Stick by your family, boy. Think of your home, boy ; 
write and send, and talk about it. And for your coun- 
try, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, " and 
for that flag," and he pointed to the ship, "never 
dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, 
though the service carry you through a thousand hells. 
No matter what happens to you, no matter who flat- 
ters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, 
never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that 
flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you 



THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 57 

have to do with, behind officers and Government and 
people even, there is the Country Herself, your Coun- 
try, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your 
own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand 
by your mother." 

I was frightened to death by his calm, hard pas- 
sion ; but I blundered out that I would, by all that 
was holy, and that I had never thought of doing any- 
thing else. 

He hardly seemed to hear me ; but he did almost 
in a whisper say : " Oh, if anybody had said so to me 
when I was of your age ! " 

After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. The 
other men tell me that in those fifteen years he aged 
very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was 
still the same gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer 
that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self- 
appointed punishment. And now it seems the dear 
old fellow is dead. He has found a home at last, and 
a country, 

I have received from Danforth, who is on board 
the Levant, a letter which gives an account of Nolan's 
last hours. 

44 Oh, Danforth," he said, "I know I am dying. I 
cannot get home. Surely you will tell me something 
now ? Stop ! stop ! Do not speak till I say what I am 
sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that 
there is not in America — God bless her ! — a more 
loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves 
the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes 
for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, 
Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not 
know what their names are. There has never been 



58 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 

one taken away ; I thank God for that. I know by 
that that there has never been any successful Burr. ,% 

He asked me to bring the Presbyterian " Book of 
Public Prayer," which lay there, and said with a smile 
that it would open at the right place, — and so it did. 
There was his double red mark down the page ; and 
I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me: 
" Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to 
behold and bless Thy servant, the President of the 
United States, and all others in authority," — and the 
rest of the Episcopal Collect. " Danforth," said he, 
" I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it 
is now fifty-five years. Look in my Bible, Danforth, 
when I am gone," he said, and then fell asleep. 

We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of 
paper at the place where he had marked the text : — 

"They desire a country, even a heavenly: where- 
fore God is not ashamed to be called their God : for 
he hath prepared for them a city." 

On this slip of paper he had written, — 

" Bury me in the sea ; it has been my home, and I 
love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my 
memory at Port Adams or at Orleans, that my dis- 
grace may not be more than I ought to bear ? Say 
on it, — 

In Memory of 
PHILIP NOLAN 

Lieutenant in the Army of the United States. 

He loved his country as no other man has loved her; 

but no man deserved less at her hands" 



HERVE RIEL 1 

ROBERT BROWNING 
I 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety- 
two, 
Did the English fight the French — woe to France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through 

the blue, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 

n 
'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in 
full chase, 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signalled to the place, 
" Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — 

or, quicker still, 
Here 's the English can and will ! " 

ui 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped 
on board ; 
" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these 
to pass ? " laughed they ; 

1 An abridgment of the poem* 



60 HERV£ KIEL 

" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 

scarred and scored, 
Shall the 'Formidable' here, with her twelve and 
eighty guns, 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow 
way, 
Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty 
tons, 
And with flow at full beside ? 
Now 't is slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ! Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

IV 

Then was called a council straight ; 

Brief and bitter the debate ; 

" Here 's the English at our heels ; would you have 

them take in tow 
All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern 

and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? — 
Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech), 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the 
beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 

v 

" Give the word ! " — But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid 
all these — 



HERVE KIEL 61 

A captain? A lieutenant? A mate — first, second, 
third? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville 
for the fleet — 
A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 

VI 

And " What mockery or malice have we here ? " cries 
Herve Riel ; 
" Are you mad, you Malouins ? Are you cowards, 
fools or rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the 

soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 
'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river 
disembogues ? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the 
lying 's for ? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet, and ruin France ? That were worse 
than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe 
me there 's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 

And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor, past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound ; 



62 HERVE KIEL 

And if one ship misbehave — 

Keel so much as grate the ground — 
Why, I've nothing but my life; here 's my head ! " 
cries Herve Kiel. 

VII 

Not a minute more to wait ! 

44 Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! " 
cried its chief. 
" Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is admiral, in brief." 
Still the north wind, by God's grace ; 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide 
sea's profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock ! 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past, 
All are harbored to the last, 

And just as Herve Kiel hollas " Anchor ! " sure as fate, 
Up the English come, too late. 

VIII 

Out burst all with one accord, 
44 This is Paradise for hell ! 
Let France, let France's king, 
Thank the man that did the thing ! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 
« Herve Kiel !" 



HERVE KIEL 63 

As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes — 

Just the same man as before. 

IX 

Then said Damf reville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard ; 
Praise is deeper than the lips ; 
You have saved the king his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content, and have ! or my 
name 's not Damfreville." 

x 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
" Since I needs must say my say 

Since on board the duty 's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, 
what is it but a run ? — 
Since 't is ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call 
the Belle Aurore ! " 

That he asked and that he got — nothing 
more. 



64 HERVfe KIEL 

XI 

Name and deed alike are lost ; 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 

In memory of the man but for whom bad gone to 
wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence Eng- 
land bore the bell. 
Go to Paris ; rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ; 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve 
Kiel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Kiel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the 
Belle Aurore ! 



FORT WAGNER 

ANNA E. DICKINSON 

Through the whole afternoon there had been a 
tremendous cannonading of the fort from the gun- 
boats and the land forces. About six o'clock there 
came moving up the island, over the burning sands and 
under the burning sky, a stalwart, splendid-appearing 
set of men who looked equal to any daring and capa- 
ble of any heroism. Weary, travel-stained, with the 
mire and the rain of a two-days' tramp ; weakened by 
the incessant strain and lack of food ; with gaps in 
their ranks made by the death of comrades who had 
fallen in battle but a little time before, it was plain 
to be seen of what stuff these men were made, and for 
what work they were ready. 

As this regiment, the famous Fifty-fourth, came up 
the island to take its place at the head of the storm- 
ing party in the assault on Wagner, it was cheered 
from all sides by the white soldiers. 

The day was lurid and sultry. Great masses of 
cloud, heavy and black, were piled in the western sky, 
fringed here and there by an angry red, and torn by 
vivid streams of lightning. Not a breath of wind 
shook the leaves or stirred the high, rank grass by the 
water side ; a portentous and awful stillness filled the 
air. 

Quiet, with the like awful and portentous calm, 
the black regiment, headed by its young, fair-haired, 
knightly colonel, marched to its destined place and 



66 FORT WAGNER 

action. A slightly rising ground, raked by a murder- 
ous fire ; a ditch holding three feet of water ; a straight 
lift of parapet thirty feet high — an impregnable po- 
sition, held by a desperate and invincible foe. Here 
the word of command was given : 

" We are ordered and expected to take Battery 
Wagner at the point of the bayonet. Are you ready ? " 

" Ay, ay, sir ! ready ! " was the answer. 

And the order went pealing down the line : " Ready ! 
Close ranks! Charge bayonets! Forward! Double- 
quick, march ! " 

And away they went, under a scattering fire, in one 
compact line, till within one hundred feet of the fort, 
when the storm of death broke upon them. Every gun 
belched forth its great shot and shell; every rifle 
whizzed out its sharp-singing, death-freighted messen- 
ger. The men wavered not for an instant — forward, 
forward they went. They plunged into the ditch; 
waded through the deep water, no longer of muddy 
hue, but stained crimson with their blood ; and com- 
menced to climb the parapet. The foremost line fell, 
and then the next, and the next. On, over the piled- 
up mounds of dead and dying, of wounded and slain, 
to the mouth of the battery ; seizing the guns ; bayo- 
netting the gunners at their posts ; planting their flag 
and struggling around it ; their leader on the walls, 
sword in hand, his blue eyes blazing, his fair face 
aflame, his clear voice calling out : " Forward, my 
brave boys ! " then plunging into the hell of battle 
before him. 

As the men were clambering up the parapet their 
color-sergeant was shot dead. A nameless hero who 
was just behind sprang forward, seized the staff from 
his dying hand, and with it mounted upward. A ball 



FORT WAGNER 67 

struck his right arm ; but before it could fall shattered 
by his side, his left hand caught the flag and carried 
it onward. Though faint with the loss of blood and 
wrung with agony, he kept his place, — the colors 
flying, — up the slippery steep ; up to the walls of the 
fort ; on the wall itself, planting the flag where the 
men made that brief, splendid stand, and melted away 
like snow before furnace heat. Here a bayonet thrust 
met him and brought him down, a great wound in 
his brave breast, but he did not yield ; dropping to 
his knees, pressing his unbroken arm upon the gaping 
wound — the colors still flew, an inspiration to the 
men about him, a defiance to the foe. 

At last when the shattered ranks fell back, sullenly 
and slowly retreating, he was seen painfully working 
his way downward, still holding aloft the flag, bent 
evidently on saving it, and saving it as flag had rarely, 
if ever, been saved before. 

Slowly, painfully he dragged himself onward, — 
step by step down the hill, inch by inch across the 
ground, — to the door of the hospital ; and then, while 
dying eyes brightened, while dying men held back 
their souls from the eternities to cheer him, gasped 
out: "I did — but do — my duty, boys, — and the 
dear — old flag — never once — touched the ground " 
— And then, away from the reach and sight of its 
foes, in the midst of its defenders who loved and were 
dying for it, the flag at last fell. 

The next day a flag of truce went up to beg the 
body of the heroic young chief who had so led that 
marvelous assault. It came back without him. A 
ditch, deep and wide, had been dug; his body and 
those of twenty-two of his men, found dead upon and 
about him, flung into it in one common heap; and 



68 FORT WAGNER 

the word sent back was : " We have buried him with 
his niggers." 

It was well done. Slavery buried these men, black 
and white, together — black and white in a common 
grave. Let Liberty see to it, then, that black and 
white be raised together in a life better than the old. 



PHEIDIPPIDES 

ROBERT BROWNING 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock ! 
Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to 

all! 
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal 

in praise 
— Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis 

and spear ! 
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your 

peer, 
Now, henceforth and forever, — O latest to whom I 

upraise 
Hand and heart and voice ! For Athens, leave pasture 

and flock ! 
Present to help, potent to save, Pan — patron I call ! 

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix,see, I return ! 
See, 't is myself here standing alive, no spectre that 

speaks ! 
Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, 

Athens and you, 
" Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for 

aid! 
Persia has come, we are here, where is She ? " Your 

command I obeyed, 
Kan and raced : like stubble, some field which a fire 

runs through, 



70 PHEIDIPP1DES 

Was the space between city and city : two days, two 

nights did I burn 
Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up 

peaks. 

Into their midst I broke : breath served but for " Per- 
sia has come ! 

Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and 
earth ; 

Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall 
Athens sink, 

Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly 
die, 

Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stu- 
pid, the stander-by ? 

Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you 
stretch o'er destruction's brink ? 

How, — when ? No care for my limbs ! — there 's 
lightning in all and some — 

Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it 
birth!" 

O my Athens — Sparta love thee? Did Sparta re- 
spond ? 

Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mis- 
trust, 

Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of grati- 
fied hate ! 

Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for ex- 
cuses. I stood 

Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an 
inch from dry wood: 

" Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they de- 
bate? 



PHEIDIPPIDES 71 

Thunder, thou Zeus ! Athene, are Spartans a quarry 

beyond 
Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang 

them « Ye must' 1" 

No bolt launched from Olumpos ! Lo, their answer 
at last ! 

" Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may 
Sparta befriend ? 

Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue 
at stake ! 

Count we no time lost time which lags through respect 
to the gods ! 

Ponder that precept of old, * No warfare, whatever the 
odds 

In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is un- 
able to take 

Full-circle her state in the sky ! " Already she rounds 
to it fast : 

Athens must wait, patient as we — who judgment sus- 
pend." 

Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had 

moulded to ash ! 
That sent a blaze through my blood ; off, off and away 

was I back, 
— Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the 

false and the vile ! 
Yet " O gods of my land ! " I cried, as each hillock 

and plain, 
Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past 

them again, 
" Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we 

paid you ere while? 



72 PHEIDIPPIDES 

Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! 

Too rash 
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack ! 

" Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to en- 
wreathe 
Brows made bold by your leaf ! Fade at the Persian's 

foot, 
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never 

adorn a slave ! 
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste 

tract ! 
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain ! What matter if 

slacked 
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to 

cave 
No deity deigns to drape with verdure ? at least I can 

breathe, 
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the 

mute!" 

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge ; 

Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden , a bar 

Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 

Eight! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fis- 
sure across : 

" Where I could enter, there I depart by ! Night in 
the fosse ? 

Athens to aid ? Though the dive were through Ere- 
bos, thus I obey — 

Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise ! 
No bridge 

Better!" — when — ha! what was it I came on, of 
wonders that are ? 



PHEIDIPPIDES 73 

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan ! 

Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned 
his hoof: 

All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly 
— the curl 

Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, 

As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I 
saw. 

" Halt, Pheidippides ! " — halt I did, my brain of a 
whirl : 

44 Hither to me ! Why pale in my presence ? " he gra- 
cious began : 

" How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof ? 

" Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no 

feast ! 
Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more 

helpful of old? 
Ay, and still, and forever her friend ! Test Pan, trust 

me! 
Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have 

faith 
In the temples and tombs ! Go, say to Athens, * The 

Goat-God saith : 
When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is 

cast in the sea, 
Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your 

most and least, 
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the 

free and the bold ! ' 

44 Say Pan saith : 4 Let this, foreshowing the place, be 

the pledge !'" 
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear 



74 PHEIDIPPIDES 

— Fennel — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — what- 
ever it bode) 

" While, as for thee "... But enough ! He was gone. 
If I ran hitherto — 

Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, 
but flew. 

Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my 
road: 

Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on 
the razor's edge ! 

Pan for Athens, Pan for me ! I too have a guerdon 
rare! 

Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of 

Greece, 
Whose limbs did duty indeed, — what gift is promised 

thyself? 
Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands 

of her son ! " 
Rosily blushed the youth : he paused : but, lifting at 

length 
His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered 

the rest of his strength 
Into the utterance — " Pan spoke thus : • For what 

thou hast done 
Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed 

thee release 
From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or 

in pelf ! ' 

" 1 am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most 

to my mind ! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel 

may grow, — 



PHEIDIPPIDES 75 

Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under 

the deep, 
Whelm her away forever ; and then, — no Athens to 

save, — 
Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the 

brave, — 
Hie to my house and home : and, when my children 

shall creep 
Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful 

yet kind, 
Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding 

him — so! " 

Unf oreseeing one ! Yes, he fought on the Marathon 

day: 
So, when Persia was dust, all cried " To Akropolis ! 
Run, Pheidippides, one race more ! the meed is thy due ! 
4 Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout I " He flung 

dow r n his shield, 
Ran like fire once more : and the space 'twixt the 

Fennel-field 
And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire 

runs through, 
Till in he broke : " Rejoice, we conquer ! " Like wine 

through clay, 
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the 

bliss ! 

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of 
salute 

Is still " Rejoice! " — his word which brought rejoic- 
ing indeed. 

So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong 
man 



76 PHEIDIPPIDES 

Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, 

whom a god loved so well ; 
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was 

suffered to tell 
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he 

began, 
So to end gloriously — once to shout, thereafter be 

mute: 
" Athens is saved ! " — Pheidippides dies in the shout 

for his meed. 



THE RESCUE OP LYGIA 1 

HENRY SIENKIEWICZ 

When the news went forth that the end of the 
games was approaching, and that the last of the Chris- 
tians were to die at an evening spectacle, a countless 
audience assembled in the amphitheatre. 

Caesar arrived earlier than usual ; and immediately 
at his coming people whispered that something un- 
common would happen, that a novel kind of punish- 
ment was intended for the Christian princess, Lygia. 

So every eye was turned with strained gaze to the 
place where the young tribune Vinicius, her unfortu- 
nate lover, was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and 
his forehead was covered with drops of sweat. For- 
merly he was resigned to the divine will in everything. 
Now, without clear consciousness of what was happen- 
ing in his mind, he had the feeling that if he should 
see Lygia tortured, his love for God would be turned 
to hatred, and his faith to despair. But he was amazed 
at the feeling, for he feared to offend Christ, whom 
he was imploring for mercy and miracles. As a man 
falling over a precipice grasps at everything which 
grows on the edge of it, so did he grasp at the thought 
that faith of itself could save her. Peter had said that 
faith could move the earth to its foundations. 

Hence he rallied ; he crushed doubt in himself, he 

1 Arranged from " Quo Vadis " ; translated from the Polish by 
Jeremiah Curtin. By permission of the publishers, Little, Brown & 
Co., Boston. 



78 THE RESCUE OF LYGIA 

compressed his whole being into the sentence, " I be- 
lieve," and he looked for a miracle. 

The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, 
the hinges opposite Caesar's podium creaked, and out 
of the dark gully came the giant, Ursus, into the 
brightly lighted arena. 

At sight of him a murmur passed along every bench. 
In Rome there was no lack of gladiators larger by far 
than the common measure of man, but Roman eyes 
had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed 
with the delight of experts at his mighty limbs as large 
as tree-trunks, at his breast as large as two shields 
joined together, and his arms of a Hercules. 

He was unarmed, and had determined to die as be- 
came a confessor of the " Lamb," peacefully and pa- 
tiently. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands, 
and raised his eyes toward the stars which were glit- 
tering in the lofty opening of the amphitheatre. 

That act displeased the crowds. They had had enough 
of those Christians who died like sheep. They under- 
stood that, if the giant would not defend himself, the 
spectacle would be a failure. Here and there hisses 
were heard. 

Suddenly came the shrill sound of brazen trumpets, 
and at that signal a grating opposite Caesar's podium 
was opened, and into the arena rushed, amid shouts of 
beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing 
on his head the naked body of a woman. 

" Lygia ! Lygia ! " cried Vinicius. 

Then he seized his hair near the temples, squirmed 
like a man who feels a sharp dart in his body, and be- 
gan to repeat in hoarse accents : — 

"I believe! I believe! O Christ, a miracle!" 

" I believe ! I believe ! I believe ! " 



THE RESCUE OF LYGIA 79 

The amphitheatre was silent, for in the arena some- 
thing uncommon had happened. That Lygian, obedi- 
ent and ready to die, when he saw his queen on the 
horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched by 
living fire, and bending forward, ran at the raging 
animal. 

From all throats a sudden cry of amazement was 
heard as the Lygian fell on the raging bull in a twinkle, 
and seized him by the horns. 

All ceased to breathe. In the amphitheatre a fly 
might be heard on the wing. People could not believe 
their own eyes. Since Rome was Rome, no one had 
seen such a spectacle. 

The man's feet sank in the sand to his ankles, his 
back was bent like a drawn bow, his head was hidden 
between his shoulders, on his arms the muscles came 
out so that the skin almost burst from their pressure ; 
but he had stopped the bull in his tracks. And the 
man and the beast remained so still that the spectators 
thought themselves looking at a picture showing a 
deed of Hercules or Theseus, or a group hewn from 
stone. But in that apparent repose there was a tremen- 
dous exertion of two struggling forces. The bull sank 
his feet, as well as did the man, in the sand, and his 
dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a 
gigantic ball. Which of the two would fall first? 

In the amphitheatre were men who had raised their 
arms and remained in that posture. Sweat covered the 
faces of others, as if they themselves were struggling 
with the beast. In the Circus nothing was heard save 
the sound of flame in the lamps, and the crackle of 
bits of coal as they dropped from the torches. It 
seemed to all that the struggle was lasting for ages. 
But the man and the beast continued on in their mon- 



80 THE RESCUE OF LYGIA 

strous exertion ; one might have said that they were 
planted in the earth. 

Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard 
from the arena, after which a brief shout was wrested 
from every throat, and again there was silence. People 
thought themselves dreaming till the enormous head 
of the bull began to turn in the iron hands of the bar- 
barian. The face, neck, and arms of the Lygian grew 
purple ; his back bent still more. It was clear that he 
was rallying the remnant of his superhuman strength, 
but that he could not last long. 

Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and 
more painful grew the groan of the bull as it mingled 
with the whistling breath from the breast of the giant. 
The head of the beast turned more and more, and from 
his jaws crept forth a long, foaming tongue. 

A moment more, and to the ears of spectators sit- 
ting nearer came as it were the crack of breaking 
bones ; then the beast rolled on the earth with his 
neck twisted in death. 

The giant removed in a twinkle the ropes from the 
horns of the bull and, raising the maiden, began to 
breathe hurriedly. For a moment he stood as if only 
half conscious ; then he raised his eyes and looked at 
the spectators. 

The amphitheatre had gone wild. 

The walls of the building were trembling from the 
roar of tens of thousands of people. Since the begin- 
ning of spectacles there was no memory of such ex- 
citement. Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, pas- 
sionate and persistent, which soon turned into one un- 
broken thunder. That giant had become dear to those 
people enamoured of physical strength ; he was the 
first personage in Rome. 



THE RESCUE OF LYGIA 81 

He understood that the multitude were striving to 
grant him his life and restore him his freedom, but 
clearly his thought was not on himself alone. Ap- 
proaching Caesar's podium, and, holding the body of 
the maiden on his outstretched arms, he raised his eyes 
with entreaty, as if to say, — 

"Have mercy on her ! Save the maiden ; I did that 
for her sake ! " 

Vinicius started up from his seat, sprang over the 
barrier which separated the front places from the 
arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her naked body 
with his toga. 

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare 
the scars left by wounds received in the Armenian 
war, and stretched out his hands to the audience. 

At this the enthusiasm of the multitude passed 
everything seen in a circus before. The crowd stamped 
and howled. Voices calling for mercy grew simply ter- 
rible. People not only took the part of the athlete, but 
rose in defence of the soldier, the maiden, their love. 
Thousands of spectators turned to Caesar with flashes 
of anger in their eyes and with clinched fists. 

But Caesar halted and hesitated. 

Now rage began to possess the multitude. Dust rose 
from beneath the stamping feet, and filled the amphi- 
theatre. In the midst of shouts were heard cries : 
" Ahenobarbus ! matricide ! incendiary ! " 

Caesar was alarmed. Romans were absolute lords in 
the Circus. He understood that to oppose longer was 
dangerous. A disturbance in the Circus might seize 
the whole city, and have results incalculable. 

He looked once more ; and seeing everywhere frown- 
ing brows, excited faces, and eyes fixed on him, he 
gave the sign for mercy. 



82 THE RESCUE OF LYGIA 

Then a thunder of applause was heard from the 
highest seats to the lowest. The people were sure of 
the lives of the condemned, for from that moment 
they went under their protection, and even Caesar 
would not have dared to pursue them any longer with 
his vengeance. 



SHAMUS O'BRIEN 1 

A TALE OF '98, AS RELATED BY AN 
IRISH PEASANT 

JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU 

Jist after the war, in the year '98, 
As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate, 
'T was the custom, whenever a peasant was got, 
To hang him by trial — barrin' such as was shot. 
An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all 
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. 

An' it 's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught, 

An' it 's often he run, an' it 's often he fought ; 

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must 

rest, 
An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best. 
Afther many a brave action of power and pride, 
An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, 
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, 
In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 

Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone, 

The terrible day iv the thrial kem on ; 

There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, 

An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand ; 

An' the courthouse so full that the people were both- 
ered, 

An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smoth- 
ered; 

1 An abridgment of the poem. 



84 SHAMUS O'BRIEN 

An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, 

An' the judge settled out so detarinined an' big 

With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig ; 

An' silence was called, an' the minute 't was said 

The court was as still as the heart of the dead, 

An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, 

An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. 

For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, 

An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong, 

An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, 

A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ; 

An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, 

As calm and as cold as a statue of stone ; 

An' they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, 

An' Jim did n't understand it nor mind it a taste ; 

An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, 

44 Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase ? " 

An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, 

An' Sharnus O'Brien made answer and said : 

44 My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime 

I thought any treason, or did any crime 

That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, 

The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, 

Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow 

Before God and the world I would answer you, No ! 

But if you would ask me, as I think it like, 

If in the Rebellion I carried a pike, 

An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, 

An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, 

I answer you, Yes ; and I tell you again, 

Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that 

then 
In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry, 
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." 



SHAMUS O'BRIEN 85 

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, 

An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light ; 

By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap ! 

In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. 

Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by, 

Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry : 

" O judge ! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word ! 

The crather is young, have mercy, my lord ; 

He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' ; 

You don't know him, my lord — oh, don't give him to 

ruin ! 
He 's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted ; 
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted ! 
Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, 
An' God will forgive you — oh, don't say the word ! " 

That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, 
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or for- 
saken ; 
An' down his pale cheeks, at the words of his mother, 
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one af ther th' other ; 
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake, 
But the sthrong manly voice used to f alther and break ; 
But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride, 
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide. 
"An'," says he, " mother, darlin', don't break your 

poor heart, 
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part ; 
An' God knows it 's better than wand'ring in fear 
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild 

deer, 
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, 
From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest. 
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, 



86 SHAMUS O'BRIEN 

Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour ; 
For I wish, when my head 's lyin' undher the raven, 
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven ! " 
Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head, 
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said. 
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, 
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky ; 
But why are the men standin' idle so late ? 
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate ? 
What come they to talk of ? what come they to see ? 
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross- 
tree? 
O Shamus O'Brien ! pray fervent and fast, 
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your 

last; 
Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, 
When sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must 
die! 

At last they threw open the big prison-gate, 
An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state, 
An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it, 
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. 
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, 
Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', 
A wild, sailin' sound kem on by degrees, 
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through 

trees. 
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, 
An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on ; 
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, 
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. 
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, 
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand 5 



SHAMUS O'BRIEN 87 

An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the 

ground, 
An* Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around. 

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew 
still, 

Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned 
chill; 

An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, 

For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare ; 

An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last 
prayer. 

But the good priest did more, for his hands he un- 
bound, 

An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the 
ground ; 

Bang ! bang ! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers ; 

He 's not down ! he 's alive ! now stand to him, neigh- 
bors! 

Through the smoke and the horses he's into the 
crowd, — 

By the heavens, he 's free ! — than thunder more loud, 

By one shout from the people the heavens were 
shaken — 

One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. 

The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, 

An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ; 

To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, 

An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. 

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, 

But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must 
hang. 



MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF 
THE CZAR 

JULES VERNE 

The door of the imperial cabinet was opened and 
General Kissoff was announced. 

"The courier?" inquired the Czar eagerly. 

" He is here, sire," replied General Kissoff. 

" Let him come in," said the Czar. 

In a few moments Michael Strogoff, the courier, 
entered. The Czar fixed a penetrating look upon him 
without uttering a word. Then in an abrupt tone, — 

"Thy name?" 

" Michael Strogoff, sire." 

"Thy rank?" 

" Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar." 

" Thou dost know Siberia ? " 

" I am a Siberian." 

"A native of — ?" 

" Omsk, sire." 

" Hast thou relations there ? " 

" Yes, sire, my aged mother." 

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; 
then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand : 
" Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Stro- 
goff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, 
and to no one but him." 

" I will deliver it, sire." 

" The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have 
to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, 
whose interest it will be to intercept this letter." 



MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 89 

" I will traverse it." 

"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, 
who will perhaps meet thee on the way." 

w I will beware of him." 

" Wilt thou pass through Omsk ? " 

u Sire, that is my route." 

44 If thou dost see thy mother, there will be the risk 
of being recognized. Thou must not see her ! " 

Michael Strogoff hesitated a moment, and then said: 
44 1 will not see her." 

44 Swear to me that nothing will make thee acknowl- 
edge who thou art, nor whither thou art going." 

44 1 swear it." 

44 Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends 
the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my 
brother, the Grand Duke." 

44 This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, 
the Grand Duke." 

44 Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your 
native land." 

The courier saluted his sovereign and that very 
night set out to fulfill his perilous mission. All went 
well until he reached Omsk. Compelled to stop here 
for food and a change of horses, he was about to leave 
the posting-house to continue his journey when sud- 
denly a cry made him tremble — a cry which pene- 
trated to the depths of his soul, — and these two words 
rushed into his ear : 44 My son ! " 

His mother, the old woman, Marf a, was before him ! 
Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth 
her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward ; 
he was about to throw himself — when the thought of 
duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in 
this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great 



90 MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 

was his self-command that not a muscle of his face 
moved. There were twenty people in the public room, 
and among them perhaps spies, and was it not known 
that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps 
of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not 
move. 

" Michael ! " cried his mother. 

" Who are you, my good woman? " 

" Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy 
mother ? " 

"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you." 

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his 
eyes, said : " Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa 
Strogoff?" 

Michael would have given his life to have locked his 
mother in his arms. But if he yielded now, it was all 
over with him, with her, with his mission, with his 
oath. Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes 
that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his 
mother. 

" I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my 
good woman." 

« Michael ! " 

u My name is not Michael. I never was your son ! 
I am Nicholas Kopanoff, a merchant of Irkutsk." 

And suddenly he left the room, while for the last 
time the words echoed in his ears, — 

" My son ! My son ! " 

Michael Strogoff by a desperate effort had gone. 
He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back 
almost inanimate on a bench. But when the Postmas- 
ter hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised her- 
self. Suddenly the thought occurred to her : She denied 
by her own son ! It was impossible ! As for being de- 



MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 91 

ceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her 
son whom she had just seen ; and if he had not recog- 
nized her it was because he had some strong reason for 
acting thus. And then, her mother-feelings arising 
within her, she had only one thought : Can I unwit- 
tingly have ruined him? 

" I am mad," she said to her interrogators. " This 
young man was not my son ; he had not his voice. 
Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in 
finding him everywhere." 

This scene, however, was immediately reported to 
Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. He at 
once arrested Michael Strogoff, and then had Marfa 
brought before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan 
Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her 
breast, and waited. 

"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff. 

"Yes." 

" Do you retract what you said a few hours ago ? " 

« No." 

" Then you do not know that your son, Michael Stro- 
goff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk ? " 

" I do not know it." 

" And the man whom you thought you recognized 
as your son was not your son ? " 

" He was not my son." 

" And since then, have you seen him among the 
prisoners ? " 

"No." 

" If he were pointed out to you, would you recog- 
nize him ? " 

"No." 

" Listen ! Your son is here, and you shall immedi- 
ately point him out to me." 



92 MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 

" No." 

" All these men will file before you, and if you do 
not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as 
many blows from the knout as men shall have passed 
before you." 

On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one 
by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, 
and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. 
Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms 
of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed 
into the flesh. 

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her 
knees on the ground. Her dress torn off left her back 
bare. A sabre was placed before her breast at a few 
inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, 
her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The 
Tartar drew himself up and waited. 

" Begin," said Ogareff. 

The whip whistled through the air, but, before it 
fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan 
Ogareff had succeeded. 

" Michael Strogoff ! " cried he. 

" Himself ! " said Michael, and raising the knout, 
he struck Ogareff a blow across the face. 

" Blow for blow! " said he. 

Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and 
in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff 
stopped them. 

" This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. 
Search him." 

The letter bearing the imperial arms was found in 
Michael's bosom ; he had not had time to destroy it. It 
was handed to Ogareff. Michael was then led before 
the Emir. 



MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 93 

" Your forehead to the ground ! " exclaimed Ogareff. 

"No!" 

Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were 
themselves laid on the ground by a blow from 
Michael's fist. 

" Who is this prisoner ? " asked the Emir. 

" A Russian spy," answered Ogareff. 

In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that 
the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a 
sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he 
pointed to the Koran which was brought to him. He 
opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one 
of its pages, read in a loud voice a verse ending in 
these words : " And he shall no more see the things 
of this earth." 

" Russian spy, you have come to see what is going 
on in the Tartar camp ; then look while you may ! 
You have seen for the last time. In an instant your 
eyes will be for ever shut to the light of day." 

Michael's fate was to be not death but blindness. 
He was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, 
with a hot sabre-blade passed before his eyes. 

The Emir's orders executed, Ivan Ogareff ap- 
proached Michael, drew from his pocket the Imperial 
letter, opened it and held it up before the face of the 
Czar's courier, saying with supreme irony : — 

"Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and 
repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true 
courier of the Czar is henceforth Ivan Ogareff." 

The Emir retired with his train. Ivan followed after 
and sightless Michael was left alone to his fate. One 
thought possessed him. He must somehow arrive at 
Irkutsk before the traitor and warn the Grand Duke 
of the intended deception. 



94 MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 

Some months later Michael Strogoff had reached 
his journey's end ! He was in Irkutsk. Hastening to 
the governor's palace to see the Grand Dukd, he meets 
in a waiting room Ivan Ogareff the traitor. The latter 
must act quickly. Ogareff rose, and thinking he had 
an immeasurable advantage over the blind man threw 
himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps 
the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. 
Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to 
spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his foot- 
steps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the 
blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword 
full blast at Michael's breast. An imperceptible move- 
ment of the blind man's knife turns aside the blow. 
Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second at- 
tack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff's brow ; he draws 
back a step and again leaps forward. But like the 
first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has parried 
the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with 
rage and terror, he gazes into the wide-open eyes of 
the blind man. Those eyes which seem to pierce to 
the bottom of his soul, and which do not, cannot, see, 
exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him. 

Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry : " He sees ! He 
sees ! " 

"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears 
which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the 
mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and 
coward ! I see the place where I am about to strike 
you ! Defend your life ! It is a duel I offer you ! My 
knife against your sword ! " 

Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but, mustering up 
all his courage, he springs forward. The two blades 
cross, but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword 



MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR 95 

flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, 
falls lifeless to the ground. 

At the same moment the door is thrown open, and 
the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, 
enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying 
on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes 
to be the Czar's courier. Then in threatening voice, — 

" Who killed this man?" 

" 1," answered Michael. 

"Thy name? Who dares kill the servant of my 
brother, the Czar's courier ? " 

"That man, your highness, is not a courier of the 
Czar ! He is Ivan Ogareff ! " 

" Ivan Ogareff ! " 

" Yes, Ivan the traitor." 

" But who are you, then ? " 

" Michael Strogoff." 



THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, 
His chestnut steed with four white feet, 

Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, 
Son of the road and bandit chief, 
Seeking refuge and relief, 

Up the mountain pathway flew. 

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, 
Never yet could any steed 

Reach the dust-cloud in his course. 
More than maiden, more than wife, 
More than gold and next to life 

Roushan the Robber loved his horse. 

In the land that lies beyond 
Erzeroum and Trebizond, 

Garden-girt his fortress stood ; 
Plundered khan, or caravan 
Journeying north from Koordistan, 

Gave him wealth and wine and food. 

Seven hundred and fourscore 
Men at arms his livery wore, 

Did his bidding night and day ; 
Now, through regions all unknown, 
He was wandering, lost, alone, 

Seeking without guide his way. 



THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 97 

Suddenly the pathway ends, 
Sheer the precipice descends, 

Loud the torrent roars unseen ; 
Thirty feet from side to side 
Yawns the chasm ; on air must ride 

He who crosses this ravine. 

Following close in his pursuit, 
At the precipice's foot 

Eeyhan the Arab of Orfah 
Halted with his hundred men, 
Shouting upward from the glen, 
"Lalllahilla Allah!" 

Gently Eoushan Beg caressed 
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast ; 

Kissed him upon both his eyes, 
Sang to him in his wild way, 
As upon the topmost spray 

Sings a bird before it flies. 

" O my Kyrat, O my steed, 
Round and slender as a reed, 

Carry me this peril through! 
Satin housings shall be thine, 
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, 

O thou soul of Kurroglou ! 

" Soft thy skin as silken skein, 
Soft as woman's hair thy mane, 

Tender are thine eyes and true ; 
All thy hoofs like ivory shine, 
Polished bright ; O life of mine, 

Leap, and rescue Kurroglou ! " 



THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, 
Drew together his four white feet, 

Paused a moment on the verge, 
Measured with his eye the space, 
And into the air's embrace 

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. 

As the ocean surge o'er sand 
Bears a swimmer safe to land, 

Kyrat safe his rider bore ; 
Rattling down the deep abyss 
Fragments of the precipice 

Rolled like pebbles on a shore. 

Roushan's tasselled cap of red 
Trembled not upon his head, 

Careless sat he and upright ; 
Neither hand nor bridle shook, 
Nor his head he turned to look, 

As he galloped out of sight. 

Flash of harness in the air, 
Seen a moment like the glare 

Of a sword drawn from its sheath ; 
Thus the phantom horseman passed, 
And the shadow that he cast 

Leaped the cataract underneath. 

Reyhan the Arab held his breath 
While this vision of life and death 

Passed above him. " Allahu ! " 
Cried he. " In all Koordistan 
Lives there not so brave a man 

As this Robber Kurroglou ! " 



THE REVENGE 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
I 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 

And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from 
far away : 

44 Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- 
three ! " 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am 
no coward ; 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of 
gear, 

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
quick. 

We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty- 
three?" 

II 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I know you are 

no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
But I ' ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 

in 

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war 

that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 

heaven ; 



100 THE REVENGE 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from 

the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 

left to Spain, 
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of 

the Lord. 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and 
to fight, 

And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard 
came in sight, 

With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 
bow. 

" Shall we fight or shall we fly? 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 

For to fight is but to die ! 

There '11 be little of us left by the time this sun be 
set." 

And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Eng- 
lish men. 

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 
devil, 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 

v 

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 

hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 

foe, 



THE REVENGE 101 

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 

sick below; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 

were seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 

between. 

VI 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their 
decks and laugh'd, 

Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 
little craft 

Running on and on, till delay'd 

By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hun- 
dred tons, 

And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 
tiers of guns, 

Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

VII 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

Pour galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 
board lay, 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

VIII 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 

and went, 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill 

content ; 



102 THE REVENGE 

And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 

hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 

musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 

shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 

IX 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 

over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 

the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 

galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
thunder and flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 

her dead and her shame. 
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so 

could fight us no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 

before ? 

x 
For he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 

night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the 

head, 
And he said, "Fight on! fight on!" 



THE REVENGE 103 

XI 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 
over the summer sea, 

And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 
all in a ring ; 

But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd 
that we still could sting, 

So they watch'd what the end would be. 

And we had not fought them in vain, 

But in perilous plight were we, 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 

And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 

In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; 

And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 
stark and cold, 

And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the pow- 
der was all of it spent ; 

And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 

But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: 

44 We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 

As may never be fought again ! 

We have won great glory, my men ! 

And a day less or more 

At sea or ashore, 

We die — does it matter when ? 

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her 
in twain ! 

Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 



Spain 



XII 

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen 

made reply : 
" We have children, we have wives, 



104 THE REVENGE 

And the Lord hath spared our lives. 

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to 

let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another 

blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 

foe. 

XIII 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 

him then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 

caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly 

foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 
" I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant 

man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 
and true, 

And had holden the power and glory of Spain so 
cheap 

That he dared her with one little ship and his Eng- 
lish few ; 

Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they 
knew, 

But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, 

And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien 
crew, 



THE REVENGE 105 

And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 

own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 

from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the weather to 

moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
quake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 

masts and their flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shat- 

ter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the 

island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



BUCK WINS A WAGER 1 

JACK LONDON 

That winter, at Dawson, Buck performed another 
exploit, not so heroic, perhaps, but one that put his 
name many notches higher on the totem-pole of Alas- 
kan fame. It was brought about by a conversation in 
the Eldorado Saloon, in which men waxed boastful of 
their favorite dogs. Buck, because of his record, was 
the target for these men, and Thornton was driven 
stoutly to defend him. At the end of half an hour 
one man stated that his dog could start a sled with 
five hundred pounds and walk off with it ; a second 
bragged six hundred for his dog ; and a third, seven 
hundred. 

" Pooh ! pooh ! " said John Thornton ; " Buck can 
start a thousand pounds." 

" And break it out ? and walk off with it for a 
hundred yards?" demanded Matthewson, a Bonanza 
king, he of the seven hundred vaunt. 

" And break it out, and walk off with it for a hun- 
dred yards," John Thornton said coolly. 

" Well," Matthewson said, slowly and deliberately, 
so that all could hear, " I Ve got a thousand dollars 
that says he can't. And there it is." 

So saying, he slammed a sack of gold dust of the 
size of a bologna sausage down on the bar. 

Nobody spoke. Thornton's bluff, if bluff it was, 

1 Arranged from "The Call of the Wild." Copyright, 1903, by 
Jack London ; copyright, 1912, by The Macmillan Company. 



BUCK WINS A WAGER 107 

had been called. He could feel a flush of warm blood 
creeping up his face. His tongue had tricked him. 
He did not know whether Buck could start a thousand 
pounds. Half a ton ! The enormousness of it appalled 
him. He had great faith in Buck's strength and had 
often thought him capable of starting such a load; 
but never, as now, had he faced the possibility of it, 
the eyes of a dozen men fixed upon him, silent and 
waiting. Further, he had no thousand dollars ; nor 
had Hans or Pete. 

" I 've got a sled standing outside now, with twenty 
fifty-pound sacks of flour on it," Matthewson went on 
with brutal directness ; " so don't let that hinder you." 

Thornton did not reply. He did not know what to 
say. He glanced from face to face in the absent way 
of a man who has lost the power of thought and is 
seeking somewhere to find the thing that will start it 
going again. The face of Jim O'Brien, a Mastodon 
king and old-time comrade, caught his eyes. It was as 
a cue to him, seeming to rouse him to do what he 
would never have dreamed of doing. 

" Can you lend me a thousand? " he asked, almost 
in a whisper. 

" Sure," answered O'Brien, thumping down a ple- 
thoric sack by the side of Matthewson's. "Though 
it 's little faith I 'm having, John, that the beast can 
do the trick." 

The Eldorado emptied its occupants into the street 
to see the test. Matthewson's sled, loaded with a thou- 
sand pounds of flour, had been standing for a couple 
of hours, and in the intense cold (it was sixty below 
zero) the runners had frozen fast to the hard-packed 
snow. A quibble arose concerning the phrase " break 
out." O'Brien contended it was Thornton's privilege 



108 BUCK WINS A WAGER 

to knock the runners loose, leaving Buck to " break 
it out " from a dead standstill. Matthewson insisted 
that the phrase included breaking the runners from 
the frozen grip of the snow. A majority of the men 
who had witnessed the making of the bet decided in 
his favor, whereat the odds went up to three to one 
against Buck. 

The team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, 
with his own harness, was put into the sled. He had 
caught the contagion of the excitement, and he felt 
that in some way be must do a great thing for John 
Thornton. He was in perfect condition, without an 
ounce of superfluous flesh, and the one hundred and 
fifty pounds that he weighed were so many pounds of 
grit and virility. The great breast and heavy fore 
legs were no more than in proportion to the rest of 
the body, where the muscles showed in tight rolls un- 
derneath the skin. Men felt these muscles and pro- 
claimed them hard as iron, and the odds went down to 
two to one. 

" Gad, sir ! Gad, sir ! " stuttered a member of the 
latest dynasty, a king of the Skookum Benches. " I 
offer you eight hundred for him, sir, before the test, 
sir ; eight hundred just as he stands." 

Thornton shook his head and stepped to Buck's 
side. 

" You must stand off from him," Matthewson pro- 
tested. " Free play and plenty of room." 

Thornton knelt down by Buck's side. He took his 
head in his two hands and rested cheek on cheek. He 
did not playfully shake him, as was his wont, or mur- 
mur soft love curses; but he whispered in his ear. 
" As you love me, Buck ! As you love me ! " was what 
he whispered. Buck whined with suppressed eagerness. 



BUCK WINS A WAGER 109 

As Thornton got to his feet, Buck seized his mit- 
tened hand between his jaws, pressing in with his 
teeth and releasing slowly, half reluctantly. It was 
the answer, in terms, not of speech, but of love. 
Thornton stepped well back. 

" Now, Buck," he said. 

Buck tightened the traces, then slacked them for 
a matter of several inches. It was the way he had 
learned. 

" Gee ! " Thornton's voice rang out, sharp in the 
tense silence. 

Buck swung to the right, ending the movement in 
a plunge that took up the slack and with a sudden 
jerk arrested his one hundred and fifty pounds. The 
load quivered, and from under the runners arose a 
crisp crackling. 

" Haw ! " Thornton commanded. 

Buck duplicated the manoeuvre, this time to the 
left. The crackling turned into a snapping, the sled 
pivoting and the runners slipping and grating several 
inches to the side. The sled was broken out. Men 
were holding their breaths, intensely unconscious of 
the fact. 

"Now, MUSH!" 

Thornton's command cracked out like a pistol-shot. 
Buck threw himself forward, tightening the traces 
with a jarring lunge. His whole body was gathered 
compactly together in the tremendous effort, the mus- 
cles writhing and knotting like live things under the 
silky fur. His great chest was low to the ground, his 
head forward and down, while his feet were flying like 
mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in par- 
allel grooves. The sled swayed and trembled, half- 
started forward. One of his feet slipped, and one man 



110 BUCK WINS A WAGER 

groaned aloud. Then the sled lurched ahead half an 
inch — an inch — two inches. . . . The jerks per- 
ceptibly diminished ; as the sled gained momentum, 
he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along. 

Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware 
that for a moment they had ceased to breathe. Thorn- 
ton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, 
cheery words. The distance had been measured off, 
and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked 
the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow 
and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the 
firewood and halted at command. Every man was 
tearing himself loose, even Matthewson. Hats and 
mittens were flying in the air. Men were shaking 
hands, it did not matter with whom, and bubbling 
over in a general incoherent babel. 

But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head 
was against head, and he was shaking him back and 
forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck, 
and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and 
lovingly. 

" Gad, sir ! Gad, sir ! " spluttered the Skookum 
Bench king. " I '11 give you a thousand for him, sir, 
a thousand, sir — twelve hundred, sir." 

Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The 
tears were streaming frankly down his cheeks. " Sir," 
he said to the Skookum Bench, " no, sir. You can go 
to the devil, sir. It 's the best I can do for you, sir." 



THE HIGHWAYMAN 1 

ALFRED NOYES 

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty- 
trees, 

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy 
seas, 

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple 
moor, 

And the highwayman came riding — 
Biding — riding — 

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. 

He 'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch 

of lace at his chin, 
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown 

doe-skin ; 
They fitted with never a wrinkle : his boots were up 

to the thigh ! 
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, 

His pistol butts a-twinkle, 
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. 

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark 

inn-yard, 
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all 

was locked and barred ; 
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be 

waiting there 
1 Copyright 1913, by Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



112 THE HIGHWAYMAN 

But the landlprd's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
Plaiting a dark-red love-knot into her long black 
hair. 



And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket 

creaked 
Where Tim the ostler listened ; his face was white and 

peaked ; 
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy 

hay, 
But he loved the landlord's daughter, 

The landlord's red-lipped daughter. 
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber 

say, — 

" One kiss, my bonny sweetheart ; I 'm after a prize 

to-night,' 
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the 

morning light ; 
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through 

the day, 
Then look for me by moonlight, 

Watch for me by moonlight, 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should 

bar the way." 

He rose upright in the stirrups ; he scarce could reach 

her hand, 
But she loosened her hair i' the casement ! His face 

burnt like a brand 
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over 

his breast ; 



THE HIGHWAYMAN 113 

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, 

(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight ! ) 
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and gal- 
loped away to the West. 

He did not come in the dawning ; he did not come at 
noon; 

And out o* the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the 
moon, 

When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the pur- 
ple "moor, 

A red-coat troop came marching — 
Marching — marching — 

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn- 
door. 

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale 

instead, 
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the 

foot of h6r narrow bed ; 
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at 

their side ! 
There was death at every window ; 

And hell at one dark window ; 
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road 

that he would ride. 

They had tied her up to attention, with many a snig- 
gering jest ; 

They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel 
beneath her breast ! 

" Now keep good watch ! " and they kissed her. She 
heard the dead man say, — 



114 THE HIGHWAYMAN 

Look for me by moonlight ; 

Watch for me by moonlight ; 
I '11 come to thee by moonlight, though hell should 
bar the way ! 

She twisted her hands behind her ; but all the knots 

held good ! 
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with 

sweat or blood! 
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the 

hours crawled by like years, 
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, 

Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 
The tip of one finger touched it ! The trigger at least 

was hers ! 



The tip of one finger touched it ; she strove no more 

for the rest ! 
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath 

her breast, 
She would not risk their hearing ; she would not 

strive again ; 
For the road lay bare in the moonlight ; 

Blank and bare in the moonlight; 
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed 

to her love's refrain. 

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse- 

hoofs ringing clear ; 
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance ? Were they deaf 

that they did not hear ? 
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the 

hill, 



THE HIGHWAYMAN 115 

The highwayman came riding, — 

Riding, — riding ! — 
The red-coats looked to their priming ! She stood up, 
straight and still ! 

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence ! Tlot-tlot, in the echo- 
ing night ! 

Nearer he came and nearer ! Her face was like a light ! 

Her eyes grew wide for a moment ; she drew one last 
deep breath, 

Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 

Her musket shattered the moonlight, 

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned 
him — with her death. 

He turned ; he spurred to the West ; he did not know 

who stood 
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with 

her own red blood ! 
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear 
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, 

The landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died 

in the darkness there. 

Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to 

the sky, 
With the white road smoking behind him and his 

rapier brandished high ! 
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon ; wine-red 

was his velvet coat, 
When they shot him down on the highway, 
Down like a dog on the highway, 
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the 

bunch of lace at his throat. 



116 THE HIGHWAYMAN 

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind 
is in the trees, 

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon 
cloudy seas, 

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the pur- 
ple moor, 

A highwayman comes riding — 
Riding — riding — 

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark 

inn -yard ; 
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is 

locked and barred ; 
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be 

waiting there 
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
Plaiting a dark-red love-knot into her long black hair. 



THE DEATH OF STEERFORTH 1 

CHARLES DICKENS 

It was broad day — eight or nine o'clock ; the 
storm raging, and some one knocking and calling at 
my door. 

" What is the matter ? " I cried. 

" A wreck ! Close by ! " 

I sprung out of bed, and asked what wreck? 

" A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with 
fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see 
her ! It 's thought, down on the beach, she "11 go to 
pieces every moment." 

The excited voice went clamoring along the stair- 
case; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly 
as I could, and ran into the street. 

Numbers of people were there before me, all run- 
ning in one direction, to the beach. I ran the same 
way, outstripping a good many, and soon came facing 
the wild sea. 

In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and 
waves, and in the crowd, and my first breathless efforts 
to stand against the weather, I was so confused that I 
looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but 
the foaming heads of the great waves. A half-dressed 
boatman, standing next me, pointed with his bare arm 
(a tattooed arrow on it, pointing in the same direc- 
tion) to the left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it, 
close in upon us ! 

1 A rranged from "David Copperfield." 



118 THE DEATH OF STEERFORTH 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet 
from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a 
maze of sail and rigging. Some efforts were even then 
being made to cut this portion of the wreck away ; for, 
as the ship, which was broadside on, turned towards 
us in her rolling, I plainly descried her people at work 
with axes, especially one active figure with long curl- 
ing hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, 
which was audible even above the wind and water, 
rose from the shore at this moment ; the sea, sweep- 
ing over the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and 
carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of 
such toys, into the boiling surge. 

Four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, 
clinging to the rigging of the remaining mast ; upper- 
most, the active figure with the curling hair. 

There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled 
and dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, now 
showing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she turned 
on her beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but 
her keel, as she sprung wildly over and turned towards 
the sea, the bell rang ; and its sound, the knell of 
those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the 
wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two 
men were gone. The agony on shore increased. Men 
groaned, and clasped their hands ; women shrieked, 
and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and 
down along the beach, crying for help where no help 
could be. I found myself one of these, frantically 
imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew, not to let 
those two lost creatures perish before our eyes. 

They were making out to me, in an agitated way 
— I don't know how, for the little I could hear I 
was scarcely composed enough to understand — that 



THE DEATH OF STEERFORTH 119 

the life-boat had been bravely manned an hour ago, 
and could do nothing ; and that as no man would be 
so desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, 
and establish a communication with the shore, there 
was nothing left to try ; when I noticed that some 
new sensation moved the people on the beach, and 
saw them part, and Ham come breaking through 
them to the front. 

I ran to him — as well as I know, to repeat my 
appeal for help. But, distracted though I was by a 
sight so new to me and terrible, the determination in 
his face, and his look out to sea — exactly the same 
look as I remembered in connexion with the morning 
after Emily's flight — awoke me to a knowledge of 
his danger. I held him back with both arms ; and 
implored the men with whom I had been speaking, 
not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him 
stir from off that sand ! 

Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the 
wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat 
off the lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph 
around the active figure left alone upon the mast. 

Against such a sight, and against such determina- 
tion as that of the calmly desperate man who was 
already accustomed to lead half the people present, I 
might as hopefully have entreated the wind. 

44 Mas'r Davy," he said cheerily, grasping me by 
both hands, " if my time is come, 't is come. If 't an't, 
I'll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all! 
Mates, make me ready ! I 'm a going off ! " 

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was break- 
ing up. I saw that she was parting in the middle, 
and that the life of the solitary man upon the mast 
hung by a thread. Still, he clung to it. He had a 



120 THE DEATH OF STEERFORTH 

singular red cap on, — not like a sailor's cap, but of 
a finer color ; and as the few yielding planks between 
him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his antici- 
pated death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to 
wave it. I saw him do it now v , and thought I was go- 
ing distracted, when his action brought an old remem- 
brance to my mind of a once dear friend. 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the 
silence of suspended breath behind him, and the storm 
before, until there was a great retiring wave, when, 
with a backward glance at those who held the rope 
which was made fast round his body, he dashed in 
after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the 
water ; rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, 
lost beneath the foam ; then drawn again to land. 
They hauled in hastily. 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where 
I stood ; but he took no thought of that. He seemed 
hurriedly to give them some directions for leaving 
him more free, — or so I judged from the motion of 
his arm, — and was gone as before. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the 
hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged 
foam, borne in towards the shore, borne on towards 
the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance 
was nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made 
the strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. 
He was so near, that with one more of his vigorous 
strokes he would be clinging to it, — when a high, 
green, vast hill-side of water came moving on shore- 
ward, from beyond the ship. He seemed to leap up 
into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone ! 

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a 
mere cask had been broken, in running to the spot 



THE DEATH OF STEERFORTH 121 

where they were hauling in. Consternation was in 
every face. They drew him to my very feet — in- 
sensible — dead. He was carried to the nearest house ; 
and, no one preventing me now, I remained near 
him, busy, while every means of restoration were 
tried ; but he had been beaten to death by the great 
wave, and his generous heart was stilled forever. 

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned 
and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me 
when Emily and I were children, and ever since, 
whispered my name at the door. 

" Sir," said he, with tears starting to his weather- 
beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy 
pale, " will you come over yonder ? " 

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me 
was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning 
on the arm he held out to support me : — 

"Has a body come ashore?" 

He said, « Yes." 

" Do I know it ? " I asked then. 

He answered nothing. 

But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it 
where Emily and I had looked for shells, two children 
— on that part of it where some lighter fragments 
of the old boat, blown down last night, had been 
scattered by the wind — among the ruins of the home 
he had wronged — I saw him lying with his head upon 
his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE 1 

(1571) 
JEAN INGELOW 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
" Pull, if ye never pulled before ! 

Good ringers, pull your best ! " quoth he. 
" Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, — 
Play uppe, < The Brides of Enderby ! ' " 

I sat and spun within the doore ; 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore, 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death, 
She moved where Lindis wandereth, — 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! " calling 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
" Cusha ! Cusha! " all along 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
Faintly came her milking song. 
1 Abridged. 



THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY 123 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
"For the dews will soone be falling; 

Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
Mellow, mellow; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 

Come uppe, Whitefoot ; come uppe, Lightfoot, 

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 
Hollow, hollow; 

Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, — 

From the clovers lift your head ; 

Come uppe, Whitefoot ; come uppe, Lightfoot j 

Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 

Jetty, to the milking shed." 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where, full fyve good miles away, 
The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country-side, 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swannerds, where their sedges are, 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till, floating o'er the grassy sea, 

Came downe that kyndly message free, 
"The Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 



124 THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY 

They sayde, " And why should this thing be, 
What danger lowers by land or sea? 
They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys, warping down, — 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne; 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby ?'" 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, — 
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea-wall (he cried) is downe ; 
The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
"God save you, mother!" straight he saith; 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " 

" Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, 

With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
Afar I heard her milking-song." 
He looked across the grassy sea 
To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 



THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY 125 

With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre 1 reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud, — 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

So f arre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat 

Before a shallow, seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by; 

I marked the lofty beacon-light 

Stream from the church-tower, red and high — 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang "Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
" O come in life, or come in death ! 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth!" 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
1 Eygre (a'-gur), an immense tidal wave. 



126 - THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY 

The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee : 
But each will mourn his own (she saith), 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! " calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling. 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
Where the water, winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy, lonesome shore. 
I shall never hear her calling, 
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow! 



THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY 127 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow! 

Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot! 

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow! 
Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow; 

Lightfoot! Whitefoot! 
From your clovers lift the head; 
Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed!" 



u 



THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 1 

CHARLES DICKENS 

In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed 
of the day awaited their fate. 

Charles Darnay, alias Evremonde, alone in a cell, 
had sustained himself with no flattering delusion since 
he came to it from the Tribunal. 

Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his 
beloved wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to 
what it must bear. 

The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and 
the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear 
again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven 
gone for ever, twelve gone for ever. 

He had been apprised that the fatal hour was 
three, and he knew he would be summoned some time 
earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily and 
slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to 
keep two before his mind, as the hour, and so to 
strengthen himself in the interval that he might be 
able, after that time, to strengthen others. 

Footsteps in the stone passage, outside the door. 
He stopped. The key was put in the lock and turned. 

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there 
stood before him, face to face, quiet, intent upon him, 
with the light of a smile on his features and a caution- 
ary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton. 

" I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of 
1 Arranged from " A Tale of Two Cities." 



THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 129 

the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before 
you. I come from her — your wife, dear Darnay. 

" I bring you a request from her. 

" You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or 
what it means; I have no time to tell you. You must 
comply with it — take off those boots you wear, and 
draw on these of mine." 

There was a chair against the wall of the cell, be- 
hind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had al- 
ready, with the speed of lightning, got him down into 
it, and stood over him barefoot. 

" Draw on these boots of mine. Quick ! " 

" Carton, there is no escaping from this place ; it never 
can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness." 

"It would be madness if I asked you to escape; 
but do I? Change that cravat for this of mine, that 
coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take 
this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair 
like this of mine ! " 

With wonderful quickness, and with a strength 
both of will and action, that appeared quite super- 
natural, he forced all these changes upon him. The 
prisoner was like a young child in his hands. 

" Carton ! Dear Carton ! It is madness. It cannot 
be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been 
attempted, and has always failed. I implore you not 
to add your death to the bitterness of mine." 

" Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door ? 
When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and 
paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to 
write?" 

" It was, when you came in." 

" Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. 
Quick, friend, quick! " 



130 THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 

Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay 
sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in 
his breast, stood close beside him. 

" Write exactly as I speak." 

Carton was drawing his hand from his breast; 
the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried won- 
der as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon some- 
thing. 

"Is that a weapon in your hand ?" Darnay asked. 

44 No ; I am not armed." 

44 What is it in your hand?" 

64 You shall know directly. Write on; there are 
but a few words more." He dictated again. As he 
did so, with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand 
slowly and softly moved down close to the writer's 
face. 

The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the 
table, and he looked about him vacantly. 

44 What vapor is that ? " he asked. 

"Vapor?" 

44 Something that crossed me ? " 

44 1 am conscious of nothing ; there can be nothing 
here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry ! " 

As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties 
disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his at- 
tention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes 
and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton — 
his hand again in his breast — looked steadily at 
him. 

44 Hurry, hurry ! " 

The prisoner bent over the paper once more. 

Carton's hand was again watchfully and softly steal- 
ing down. He looked at the pen, and saw that it was 
trailing off into unintelligible signs. 



THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 131 

Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. 
The prisoner sprang up, with a reproachful look, but 
Carton's hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and 
Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a 
few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who 
had come to lay down his life for him; but, within 
a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the 
ground. 

Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as 
his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes 
the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and 
tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, 
he softly called, " Enter there ! Come in ! " and the 
Spy presented himself. 

44 Now, get assistance and take me to the coach." 

" You ? " said the Spy, nervously. 

44 Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You 
go out at the gate by which you brought me in ? " 

44 Of course." 

44 1 was weak and faint when you brought me in, 
and I am fainter now you take me out. The parting 
interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has hap- 
pened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your 
own hands. Quick ! Call assistance ! " 

The Spy withdrew, and returned immediately, with 
two men. 

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a 
litter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry 
it away. 

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Strain- 
ing his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened 
for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. 
There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, foot- 
steps passed along distant passages : no cry was raised, 



132 THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 

or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more 
freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and 
listened again until the clocks struck two. 

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined 
their meaning, then began to be audible. Several 
doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. 
A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely 
saying, " Follow me, Evremonde " ; and he followed. 

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, 
hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine 
to La Guillotine. 

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up 
of the tumbrils, stands the Spy. He looks into the 
first of them : not there. He looks into" the second : 
not there. He already asks himself, " Has he sacri- 
ficed me ? " when his face clears, as he looks into the 
third. 

" Which is Evremonde ? " said a man behind him. 

« That. At the back there." 

The man cries, " Down, Evremonde ! To the Guil- 
lotine all aristocrats ! Down, Evremonde ! " 

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the fur- 
row ploughed among the populace is turning round, 
to come on into the place of execution, and end. The 
ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble 
in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, 
for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it 
seated in chairs as in a garden of public diversion, are 
a number of women, busily knitting. 

The tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The 
ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. 
Crash ! — A head is held up, and the knitting-women 
who scarcely lifted their ej r es to look at it a moment 
ago when it could think and speak, count One. 



THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 133 

The second tumbril empties and moves on ; the 
third comes up. Crash ! — And the knitting-women, 
never faltering or pausing in their work, count Two. 

The supposed Evremonde descends. 

u I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the 
Lord : he that believeth in me, though he were dead, 
yet shall he live : and whosoever liveth and believeth 
in me, shall never die." 

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of 
many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the 
outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a 
mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away; 
and the knitting-women count Three. 

They said of him, about the city that night, that it 
was the peacefulest man's face ever beheld there. 
Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic. 

If he had given any utterance to his thoughts, and 
they were prophetic, they would have been these : — 

44 1 see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising 
from this abyss. 

44 1 see the lives for which I lay down my life, peace- 
ful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England 
which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child 
upon her bosom, who bears my name. 

44 1 see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and 
in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. 

44 1 see that child who lay upon her bosom and who 
bore my name, a man, winning his way up in that 
path of life which once was mine. I see him winning 
it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by 
the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded 
away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honored 
men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that 
I know and golden hair, to this place — and I hear 



134 THE SACRIFICE OF SYDNEY CARTON 

him tell the child my story, with a tender and falter- 
ing voice. 

" It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have 
ever done ; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than 
I have ever known." 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 1 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" I think that we 

Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more ; but let what will be, be. 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king ; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known. 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, 

1 Abridged. 



136 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 

And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 

Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 

And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 

Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 

So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 

And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
" My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmured Arthur, " Place me in the barge " ; 
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 137 

Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 

But she, that rose the tallest of them all 

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 

And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 

And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 

And dropping bitter tears against his brow 

Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 

And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 

Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 

That made his forehead like a rising sun 

High from the dais-throne — wereparch'd with dust; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 

So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 

From spur to plume a star of tournament, 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth, companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 



138 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now, farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — 
To the island- valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away.^ 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 139 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world, 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb 
E'en to the highest he could climb, and saw, 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
And the new sun rose, bringing the new year. 



THE JUGGLER OF TOURAINE 1 

EDWIN MARKHAM 



Once in the time of Louis the King 
Happened a smiling and holy thing. 
'Twas all in the outdoor days of old, 
Days that fancy has warmed with gold, 
Days that are gone with the leaves, alas ! 
When the light-legged juggler Barnabas 
From city to wondering city went, 
Sprinkling the world with his merriment. 

One eve, on the edge of a lonely town, 
As the clouds drove by and the rain shot down, 
Poor Barnabas, hugging his knives and balls, 
And seeking a bed in the cattle stalls, 
Fell in with a friar from the cloistral halls — 
" How is it, son," said the beaming friar, 
" That a grasshopper green is your winter tire? 
Are you trigged for the clown in a mystery play? 
Are you out as a droll till the break o' day?" 
" Father," said Barnabas, " this that you see, 
This is the kill-care Barnabas, he 
Who has lighted with laughter a hundred towns, 
Driving before him the phlegms and frowns — 

1 Abridged. First published in the December number of the Cen- 
tury Magazine, 1907. Reprinted from "The Shoes of Happiness and 
Other Poems, " Doubleday, Page & Co., 1915. By permission of the 
author and the publisher. 



THE JUGGLER OF TOURAINE 141 

Lord of the revels ; but now, ah, now, 
Blown in the wind as a leafless bough. 
Oh, the juggler's trade would the sweetest be 
Of all in the world, if bread were free! " 

"Beware," said the friar, "beware, my son: 
The cloistral trade is the sweetest one. 
For the friars keep orison day and night, 
And join the song of the souls in light, 
And the Seven Throne Angels burning white." — 

" Father, my tongue ran loose and long : 
Your trade is the sweetest : I did God wrong. 

It is much to dance with a feather thin 
Or a crooked sword on the upturned chin, 
And to get the laugh and the rat-tat-tat, 
When I pull the hen out of Gaston's hat. 
But little are these to the cloistral ways, 
Where long hours go to Our Lady's praise ; 
Where the pale friars pass with feet unshod, 
And the bread is changed to the body of God. 
Oh, would that I might the great hours know, 
Where the Sanctus sounds and the gray monks go, 
And the candles burn in a saintly row! " 

So simply told was the wistful tale 
That the word of the juggler had avail. 
" Come," said the friar, " to the cloistral rest ; 
For the God who gives to the bird a nest, 
And guides the worm on its lampless quest, 
Has sent me out on the edge of night 
To lead your soul to the place of light." 
Sweet as the sound of a sudden stream 
That cools the heat of a traveler's dream, 



142 THE JUGGLER OF TOURAINE 

So sweet was the sound of the friendly word 
The weary heart of the juggler heard. 
That night he entered the convent door, 
That night he slept on the frater's floor. 
He had found a home for his heart at last, 
And the piteous chance of the road was past. 



H 

Lightly and still went the busy days 

Where each one toiled in Our Lady's praise. 

But to laud in marble, to praise in brass, 

To honor in color, poor Barnabas, 

Nothing of these could he do, alas ! 

As leaves on a desert his learning was scant ; 

He knew neither litany, credo, nor chant; 

Nor Pater, nor Ave — not even a prayer, 

Like a sheep of the field, like a hawk of the air. 

So morning by morning the young friar slipped 
Through doors and halls to a secret crypt, 
And kneeling low at the altar cried : 
" O Madam and Mother, O Virgin Bride, 
Here am I only a tethered ox, 
Eating the grass of the useful flocks ! 
The choir can sing, and the deacons read 
The Gospel to scatter the living seed. 
Others can praise where the censers swing,, 
And the white smoke circles, ring on ring. 
And the learned can laud you with art and craft, 
In the Latin chant and the marble shaft. 
But I, poor Barnabas, nothing can I, 
But drone in the sun as a drowsy fly." 



THE JUGGLER OF TOURAINE 143 

So the year crept on till a white dawn came 

When a thought flashed over his soul like flame; 

And he leaped from his cell all legs and arms, 

Filling the cloister with looks and alarms, 

As he shot his way to the chapel dim, 

Running for joy in the heart of him. 

And when he came out of the hidden place, 

A light as of stars was over his face. 

Now day after day to the secret crypt, 

He sped light-foot as the old earth dipped 

Softly and still in the fire of dawn ; 

For the restless pain of his heart was gone. 

The friars were a-flutter that this should be, 
Till at last the Prior with two or three — 
Elders and f raters of high degree — 
Followed the juggler on tipping toe, 
Their breath held mightily, hoping to know. 
And they heard him cry at Our Lady's shrine : 
" All that I am, Madam, all is thine ! 
Again I am come with spangle and ball 
To lay at your altar my little, my all. 
The friars know all of the saints — what they do ; 
But of all up in Heaven, I know only you ! 
Of holy St. Francis a little I 've heard, 
But not of St. Plato or Peter a word. 
I know not Quintilian — nothing he said 
Of the Three and the One, and the Wine and the 

Bread. 
Ah, nothing know I of the holy books, 
And nothing of paints to put beautiful looks 
Of your eyes on the wall, nor the blowing of brass 
To make sound of my love — ah, nothing, alas, 
But the trade of the wandering Barnabas. 



144 THE JUGGLER OF TOURAINE 

Yet, Lady and Queen, if my heart would live, 
I must give the gift that I have to give." 

And then the eyes of the elders shone, 

As they peered from the shade of a pillared stone; 

For laying his friar's robe tenderly by, 

He flickers as light as a dragon-fly. 

Then whirls into many a whimsical shape, 

As once he had whirled with the crowd agape 

And softly he cried as his breath came quick : 

" Look down, for, O Madam, this is the trick 
I did at Toulon, when I took the eye 
Of the King himself as he galloped by. . . . 
This trick drew a duchess at Chateauroux. . . . 
But this is the one I have made for you ! " 
So flinging his feet in the air, he stands, 
Or goes and comes on his nimble hands, 
Or tosses the balls up to twinkle and run 
Like planets that circle about a sun. 

" Lady," he cries again, " look, I entreat : 
I worship with fingers and body and feet!" 

At this all the elders mutter and chide : 
" Nothing like this do the rules provide ! 
This is a scandal, this is a shame, 
This madcap prank in Our Lady's name. 
Out of the doors with him ; back to the street: 
He has no place at Our Lady's feet ! " 
But why do the elders suddenly quake, 
Their eyes a-stare and their knees a-shake? 
Down from the rafters arching high, 
Her blowing mantle blue with the sky — 
Lightly down from the dark descends 
The Lady of Beauty, and lightly bends 



THE JUGGLER OF TOURAINE 145 

Where Barnabas lies in the altar place, 

And wipes the dew from his shining face ; 

Then touching his hair with a look of light, 

Passes again from the mortal sight. 

An odor of lilies hallows the air; 

And sounds as of harpings are everywhere. 

" Ah," cry the elders, beating the breast, 

44 So the lowly deed is a lofty test ! 
And whatever is done from the heart to Him 
Is done from the height of the Seraphim !" 



A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 1 

KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN 

Aunt Miranda sat by the window with her lap full 
of sewing things. In one hand was the ancient, bat- 
tered, brown felt turban, and in the other were the 
orange and black porcupine quills from Rebecca's last 
summer's hat, from the hat of the summer before that, 
and the summer before that, and so on back to pre- 
historic ages. 

" If I was going to buy a hat trimmin's," she said, 
44 1 could n't select anything better or more economical 
than these quills ! Your mother had 'em when she was 
married, and you wore 'em the day you come to the 
brick house from the farm ; and I said to myself then 
that they looked kind of outlandish, but I 've grown 
to like 'em now I 've got used to 'em. You 've been 
here for goin' on two years and they 've hardly be'n 
out o' wear, summer or winter, more 'n a month to a 
time! I declare they do beat all for service! The 
black spills are 'bout as good as new, but the orange 
ones are gittin' a little mite faded and shabby. I won- 
der if I could n't dip all of 'em in shoe blackin' ? How 
do you like 'em on the brown felt ? " she asked, inclin- 
ing her head in a discriminating attitude and poising 
them awkwardly on the hat with her work-stained 
hand. 

Miss Sawyer had not been looking at Rebecca, but 
the child's eyes were flashing, her bosom heaving, and 
her cheeks glowing with sudden rage and despair. She 
1 Arranged from " New Chronicles of Rebecca." 



A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 147 

forgot that she was speaking to an older person ; for- 
got that she was dependent ; forgot everything but her 
disappointment ; and suddenly, quite without warning, 
she burst into a torrent of protest. 

" I will not wear those hateful porcupine quills 
again this winter ! I will not ! It 's wicked, wicked to 
expect me to ! Oh ! how I wish there never had been 
any porcupines in the world, or that all of them had 
died before silly, hateful people ever thought of trim- 
ming hats with them ! They curl round and tickle my 
ear ! They blow against my cheek and sting it like 
needles ! They do look outlandish ; you said so your- 
self a minute ago. Nobody ever had any but only just 
me ! The only porcupine was made into the only quills 
for me and nobody else ! I wish instead of sticking 
out of the nasty beasts, that they stuck into them, 
same as they do into my cheek ! I suffer, suffer, suffer, 
wearing them and hating them ; and they will last for- 
ever and forever, and when I 'm dead and can't help 
myself, somebody '11 rip them out of my last year 's hat 
and stick them on my head, and I '11 be buried in them ! 
Well, when I am buried they will be, that 's one good 
thing ! Oh, if I ever have a child I '11 let her choose 
her own feathers and not make her wear ugly things 
like pigs' bristles and porcupine quills ! " 

With this lengthy tirade Rebecca vanished like a 
meteor, through the door and down the street, while 
Miranda Sawyer gasped for breath, and prayed to 
Heaven to help her understand such human whirlwinds 
as this Randall niece of hers. 

This was at three o'clock, and at half-past three 
Rebecca was kneeling on the rag carpet with her head 
in her aunt's apron, sobbing her contrition. 

"Oh! Aunt Miranda, do forgive me if you can. It's 



148 A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 

the only time I Ve been bad for months ! You know 
it is ! Something broke inside of me and came tumb- 
ling out of my mouth in ugly words ! The porcupine 
quills make me feel just as a bull does when he sees 
a red cloth ; nobody understands how I suffer with 
them!" 

Miranda Sawyer had learned a few lessons in the 
last two years, lessons which were making her a trifle 
kinder, and at any rate a juster woman than she used 
to be. 

44 Well," she said finally, after staring first at Rebecca 
and then at the porcupine quills, as if to gain some 
insight into the situation, " well, I never, sence I was 
born int' the world, heerd such a speech as you Ve 
spoke, an' I guess there probably never was one. 
You 'd better tell the minister what you said and see 
what he thinks of his prize Sunday-school scholar. 
But I 'm too old and tired to scold and fuss, and try 
to train you same as I did at first. You Ve apologized 
and we won't say no more about it to-day, but I ex- 
pect you to show by extry good conduct how sorry you 
be! You care altogether too much about your looks 
and your clothes for a child, and you Ve got a temper 
that '11 certainly land you in state's prison some o' 
these days! " 

Rebecca wiped her eyes and laughed aloud. " No, 
no, Aunt Miranda, it won't really ! That was n't tem- 
per ; I don't get angry with people ; but only, once in a 
long while, with things; like those — cover them up 
quick before I begin again ! " 

Miss Miranda looked at her searchingly and uneom- 
prehendingly. 

44 Have you seen me buyin' any new bunnits, or 
your Aunt Jane ? " she asked cuttingly. 44 Is there any 



A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 149 

particular reason why you should dress better than 
your elders ? You might as well know that we 're short 
of cash just now, your Aunt Jane and me, and have 
no intention of riggin' you out like a Milltown f act'ry 
girl." 

" Oh-h ! " cried Rebecca, the quick tears starting 
again to her eyes and the color fading out of her cheeks, 
as she scrambled up from her knees to a seat on the 
sofa beside her aunt. "Oh-h! how ashamed I am! 
Quick, sew those quills on to the brown turban while 
I 'm good ! If I can't stand them I '11 make a neat little 
gingham bag and slip over them! " 

And so the matter ended. 

One day, not long afterward, Miss Miranda bor- 
rowed Mr. Perkins's horse and wagon and took Rebecca 
with her on a drive to Union. 

The red- winged black hat was forcibly removed 
from Rebecca's head just before starting, and the 
nightmare turban substituted. 

" You might as well begin to wear it first as last,' 
remarked Miranda, while Jane stood in the side door 
and sympathized secretly with Rebecca. 

It was a cold blustering day, with a high wind that 
promised to bring an early fall of snow. 

" I 'm glad I wore my Paisley shawl over my cloak," 
said Miranda. " Be you warm enough, Rebecca ? The 
wind fairly blows through my bones. I most wish 't 
we 'd waited till a pleasanter day. Keep your mind on 
your drivin', Rebecca. Go awful slow down this hill 
and walk the hoss over Cook's Brook bridge, for I 
always suspicion it 's goin' to break down under me. 
Had n't you better get out and lead — " 

The rest of the sentence was very possibly not vital, 
but at any rate it was never completed, for in the 



150 A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 

middle of the bridge a fierce gale of wind took Miss 
Miranda's Paisley shawl and blew it over her head. 
Rebecca had the whip and the reins, and in trying to 
rescue her struggling aunt could not steady her own 
hat, which was suddenly torn from her head and 
tossed against the bridge rail, where it trembled and 
flapped for an instant. 

"My hat! oh! Aunt Miranda, my hateful hat!" 
cried Rebecca, never remembering at the instant how 
often she had prayed that the " fretful porcupine " 
might some time vanish in this violent manner, since 
it refused to die a natural death. 

The stiff brown turban rose in the air, then dropped 
and flew along the bridge ; Rebecca pursued ; it 
danced along and stuck between two of the railings ; 
Rebecca flew after it, her long braids floating in the 
wind. 

" Come back ! Come back ! Don't leave me alone 
with the team. I won't have it ! Come back, and 
leave your hat ! " 

Rebecca heard, but her spirit being in arms, she 
made one more mad scramble for the vagrant hat. 

It was no use ; the wind gave the hat an extra 
whirl, it soared above the bridge-rail and disappeared 
into the rapid water below. 

"Get in again!" cried Miranda, holding on her 
bonnet. "You done your best and it can't be helped, 
I only wish 't I 'd let you wear your black hat as you 
wanted to ; and I wish 't we 'd never come such a day ! " 

It was not till next morning that Rebecca's heart 
really began its song of thanksgiving. Her Aunt Mi- 
randa announced at breakfast, that, as Mrs. Perkins 
was going to Milliken's Mills, Rebecca might go too, 
and buy a serviceable hat. 



A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 151 

Rebecca rose from her chair happier than the se- 
raphs in Paradise. 

The porcupine quills had disappeared from her life, 
and without any fault or violence on her part. She 
was wholly innocent and virtuous, but nevertheless 
she was going to have a new hat. 

" Whene'er I take my walks abroad, 
How many hats I '11 see ; 
But if they 're trimmed with hedgehog quills 
They '11 not belong to me! " 

So she improvised, secretly and ecstatically, as she 
went towards the side entry. 

44 There 's 'Bijah Flagg drivin' in," said Miss 
Miranda, going to the window. " Step out and see 
what he's got, Jane; some passelfrom the Squire, I 
guess." 

Abijah Flagg alighted and approached the side 
door with a grin. 

44 Guess what I Ve got for ye, Rebecky ? " 

44 Oh! I can't, 'Bijah ; I 'm just going to Milliken's 
Mills on an errand, and I 'm afraid of missing Mrs. 
Perkins. Show me quick ! Is it really for me, or for 
Aunt Miranda?" 

44 Eeely for you, I guess!" And he opened the 
large brown paper bag and drew from it the remains 
of a water-soaked hat ! 

Miss Miranda, full of curiosity, joined the group in 
the side entry at this dramatic moment. 

44 Well, I never ! " she exclaimed. 44 Where, and 
how under the canopy, did you ever ? " 

44 1 was working on the dam at Union Falls yester- 
day," chuckled Abijah, " an' I seen this little bunnit 
skippin' over the water. 4 Where hev I seen that kind 
of a bristlin' plume ? ' thinks I." 



152 A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 

" Then it come to me that I 'd drove that plume to 
school and drove it to meetin' an' drove it to the Fair 
an' drove it most everywheres on Becky. So I reached 
out a pole an' ketched it 'fore it got in amongst the 
logs an' come to any damage, an' here it is ! The hat 's 
passed in its checks, I guess ; looks kind as if a wet 
elephant had stepped on it ; but the plume 's 'bout 's 
good as new ! I reely fetched the hat back for the 
sake o' the plume." 

" Well, I do say," Miranda exclaimed, " and I guess 
I 've said it before, that of all the wearin' plumes that 
ever I see, that one 's the wearin'est ! Bijah 's right; 
the hat ain't no more use, Rebecca, but you can buy 
you another this mornin' — any color or shape you 
fancy — an' have Miss Morton sew these brown quills 
on to it with some kind of a buckle or a bow, jest to 
hide the roots. Then you '11 be fixed for another sea- 
son, thanks to 'Bijah." 

The next day Eebecca, taking off her new hat with 
the venerable trimming, laid it somewhat ostenta- 
tiously upside down on the kitchen table and left the 
room. 

When Aunt Miranda looked curiously into the new 
hat, she found that a circular paper lining was neatly 
pinned in the crown, and that it bore these lines : — 

It was the bristling porcupine; 

As he stood on his native heath, 
He said, " I '11 pluck me some immortelles 

And make me up a wreath. 
For tho' I may not live myself 

To more than a hundred and ten, 
My quills will last till crack of doom, 

And maybe after then. 
They can be colored blue or green 

Or orange, brown, or red, 



A TRAGEDY IN MILLINERY 153 

But often as they may be dyed 

They never will be dead." 
And so the bristling porcupine 

As he stood on his native heath, 
Said, " I think I'll pluck me some immortelles 

And make me up a wreath." 

R. R. R. 



THE POOR FISHER FOLK 1 

VICTOR HUGO 

'T IS night ; within the close-shut cabin-door 
The room is wrapped in shade, save where there fall 
Some twilight rays that creep along the floor, 
And show the fisher's nets upon the wall. 

In the dim corner, from the oaken chest, 
A few white dishes glimmer ; through the shade 
Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed, 
And a rough mattress at its side is laid. 

Five children on the long low mattress lie — 
A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams ; 
In the high chimney the last embers die, 
And redden the dark roof with crimson gleams. 

The mother kneels and thinks, and, pale with fear, 
She prays alone, hearing the billows shout ; 
While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear, 
The ominous old ocean sobs without. 

Janet is sad : her husband is alone, 
Wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night : 
His children are so little, there is none 
To give him aid. " Were they but old, they might." 
Ah, mother, when they too are on the main, 
How wilt thou weep, " Would they were young 
again ! " 

1 Abridged. Translated from the French by H. W. Alexander. 



THE POOR FISHER FOLK 155 

She takes her lantern, — 't is his hour at last ; 
She will go forth, and see if the day breaks, 
And if his signal-fire be at the mast ; 
Ah no, — not yet ! — no breath of morning wakes. 

Sudden her human eyes, that peer and watch 
Through the deep shade, a mouldering dwelling 

find. 
No light within, — the thin door shakes, — the thatch 
O'er the green walls is twisted of the wind, 
Yellow and dirty as a swollen rill. 
" Ah me," she saith, " here doth that widow dwell ; 
Few days ago my good man left her ill ; 
I will go in and see if all be well." 

She strikes the door ; she listens ; none replies, 
And Janet shudders. " Husbandless, alone, 
And with two children, — they have scant supplies, — 
Good neighbor ! She sleeps heavy as a stone." 

She calls again, she knocks ; 't is silence still, — 
No sound, no answer ; suddenly the door, 
As if the senseless creature felt some thrill 
Of pity, turned, and open lay before. 

She entered, and her lantern lighted all 
The house so still, but for the rude waves' din. 
Through the thin roof the plashing rain-drops fall, 
But something terrible is couched within. 

Half clothed, dark-featured, motionless lay she, 
The once strong mother, now devoid of life ; 
Dishevelled spectre of dead misery, — 
All that the poor leaves after his long strife. 



156 THE POOR FISHER FOLK 

The mother o'er her children, as they lay, 
Had cast her gown, and wrapped her mantle's fold ; 
Feeling chill death creep up, she willed that they 
Should yet be warm while she was lying cold. 

Eocked by their own weight, sweetly sleep the twain, 
With even breath and foreheads calm and clear ; 
So sound that the last trump might call in vain, 
For, being innocent, they have no fear. 

And why does Janet pass so fast away? 
What hath she done within that house of dread? 
What foldeth she beneath her mantle gray, 
And hurries home, and hides it in her bed ? 
With half-averted face, and nervous tread, 
What hath she stolen from the awful dead ? 

" Ah, my poor husband ! we had five before ; 
Already so much care, so much to find, 
For he must work for all. I give him more. 
What was that noise ? His step ? Ah no, the wind. 

" That I should be afraid of him I love ! 

I have done ill. If he should beat me now, 

I would not blame him. Did not the door move ? 

Not yet, poor man." She sits with careful brow, 

Wrapped in her inward grief ; nor hears the roar 

Of winds and waves that dash against his prow, 

Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore. 

Sudden the door flies open wide and lets. 
Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear, 
And the good fisher dragging his damp nets 
Stands on the threshold with a joyous cheer. 



THE POOR FISHER FOLK 157 

" 'T is thou ! " she cries, and eager as a lover 
Leaps up, and holds her husband to her breast. 
Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover. 
" 'T is I, good wife ! " and his broad face expressed 

How gay his heart that Janet's love made light. 

" What* weather was it ? " "Hard." "Your fishing?" 

« Bad. 
The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night ; 
But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad. 

" There was a devil in the wind that blew ; 
I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line, 
And once I thought the bark was broken too ; 
What did you all the night long, Janet mine ? " 

She, trembling in the darkness, answered, " I ? 
Oh, naught! I sewed, I watched, I was afraid; 
The waves were loud as thunders from the sky : 
But it is over." Shyly then she said: — 

" Our neighbor died last night ; it must have been 
When you were gone. She left two little ones, 
So small, so frail, — William and Madeline ; 
The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs." 

The man looked grave, and in the corner cast 
His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea ; 
Muttered awhile, "and scratched his head, — at last, 
" We have five children, this makes seven," said he. 

" Already in bad weather we must sleep 
Sometimes without our supper. Now — Ah, well, 
'T is not my fault. These accidents are deep ; 
It was the good God's will. I cannot tell. 



158 THE POOR FISHER FOLK 

" Why did he take the mother from those scraps, 
No bigger than my fist ? 'T is hard to read ; 
A learned man might understand perhaps, — 
So little, they can neither work nor need. 

" Go fetch them, wife ; they will be frightened sore, 
If with the dead alone they waken thus ; 
That was the mother knocking at our door, 
And we must take the children home to us. 

" Brother and sister shall they be to ours, 
And they shall learn to climb my knee at even. 
"When He shall see these strangers in our bowers, 
More fish, more food will give the God of heaven. 

44 1 will work harder ; I will drink no wine — 
Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear? 
Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine." 
She drew the curtain, saying, " They are here." 



THE FAMINE 1 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

O THE long and dreary Winter ! 
O the cold and cruel Winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river, 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
In the snow beheld no footprints, 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

O the famine and the fever ! 
O the wasting of the famine ! 
O the blasting of the fever ! 
O the wailing of the children ! 
O the anguish of the women ! 

All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
1 From " Hiawatha." 



160 THE FAMINE 

And the hungry stars in heaven 

Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy ; 
Waited not to be invited, 
Did not parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water ; 
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : " Behold me ! 
I am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 
And the other said : " Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 

And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
Lay down on her bed in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her, 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow, 
In his face a stony firmness ; 
On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the. vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 



THE FAMINE 161 

" Gitche Manito, the Mighty ! " 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
" Give your children food, O Father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha ! " 

Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! " 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest, 
Through the shadow of whose thickets, 
In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests, that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She, the dying Minnehaha. 
" Hark ! " she said ; " I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 



162 THE FAMINE 

Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the night- wind in the pine-trees ! " 
" Look ! " she said ; " I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the smoke that waves and beckons ! " 
" Ah ! " said she, " the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 



THE FAMINE 163 

Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine ; 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 



164 THE FAMINE 

From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 
" Farewell ! " said he, " Minnehaha! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter ! " 



MY DOUBLE AND HOW HE UNDID ME 1 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE 

I AM, or rather was, a minister. I was settled in 
an active, wide-awake town in the State of Maine. A 
charming place it was and is. A spirited, brave young 
parish had I ; and it seemed as if we might have all 
" the joy of eventful living " to our hearts' content. 
But I had not been at work a year before I found I 
was living two lives — one real and one merely func- 
tional — for two sets of people, one my parish, whom 
I loved, and the other a vague public, for whom I did 
not care two straws. 

Crazed by this duality of life, I first read Dr. 
Wigan on the " Duality of the Brain," hoping that I 
could train one side of my head to do these outside 
jobs, and the other to do my intimate and real duties. 
I failed. It was then that, on my wife's suggestion, I 
resolved to look out for a double. 

I was, at first, singularly successful. We happened 
to be recreating at Stafford Springs that summer. 
We rode out one day, for one of the relaxations of 
that watering-place, to the great Monson Poorhouse. 
We were passing through one of the large halls when 
my destiny was fulfilled. 

He was not shaven. He had on no spectacles. But 
I saw at once that he was of my height. He had black 
hair, worn off by his hat. So have and have not I. 
He stooped in walking. So do I. His hands were 
large, and mine. And — choicest gift of Fate in all — 

1 Abridged. 



166 MY DOUBLE AND HOW HE UNDID ME 

he had a cut from a juvenile brickbat over his right 
eye, slightly affecting the play of that eyebrow. So 
have I ! My fate was sealed. 

A word with Mr. Holley, one of the inspectors, 
settled the whole thing. It proved that this Dennis 
Shea was a harmless, amiable fellow, of the class 
known as shiftless. We applied to Judge Pynchon, 
then the Probate judge of the county, to change the 
name of Dennis Shea to Frederic Ingham, explaining 
that an eccentric gentleman wished to adopt Dennis, 
under this new name, into his family. And thus, when 
we returned to my parsonage, there entered Mrs. 
Ingham, myself, who am Mr. Frederic Ingham, and 
my double, who was Mr. Frederic Ingham by as good 
a right as I. 

Oh, the fun we had the next morning in shaving 
his beard to my pattern, cutting his hair to match 
mine, and teaching him how to wear and how to take 
off gold-bowed spectacles. Then in four successive 
afternoons I taught him four speeches. 

1. "Very well, thank you. And you?" This for 
an answer to casual salutations. 

2. " I am very glad you liked it." 

3. " There has been so much said, and, on the 
whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time." 

4. " I agree, in general, with my friend the other 
side of the room." 

I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the 
Enlightenment Board. The Double succeeded so well 
at the Board that I sent him again in my stead at the 
exhibition of the New Coventry Academy ; and here 
he undertook a " speaking part." He returned cov- 
ered with honors. He had dined at the right hand of 
the chairman, who expressed his interest in the exer- 



MY DOUBLE AND HOW HE UNDID ME 167 

cises. "I am very glad you liked it," said Dennis. 
When the Rev. Frederic Ingham was called upon for 
a speech, Dennis arose and said, " There has been so 
much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will 
not occupy the time." 

After this he went to several Commencements for 
me and ate the dinners provided ; he attended several 
clergymen's meetings, he sat through three of our 
quarterly conventions, always voting judiciously with 
the minority as I had instructed him to do. And I, 
meanwhile, who had before been losing caste among 
my friends, as holding myself aloof from the associar 
tions of the body, began to rise in everybody's favor. 
" Ingham 's a good fellow, always on hand " ; " he 
comes early and sits through to the end " ; " never 
talks much but does the right thing at the right time," 
etc., etc. 

Thus far I never had any difficulty with my Double. 
Polly is more rash than I am, and she had even risked 
Dennis at the Governor's annual party. I made the 
grand star-entree with Polly, did the agreeable to the 
Governor's wife, complimented Judge Jeffries on his 
latest decision ; and then, when I stepped out into the 
dressing-room for a moment, while I walked home, 
Mr. Frederic Ingham, my Double, stepped in through 
the library into the grand saloon. 

Polly nearly died of laughing as she told me at 
midnight how Dennis took Mrs. Jeffries down to din- 
ner. A little excited then, he attempted one or two of 
his speeches to the judge's lady. But little he knew 
how hard it was to get in even a promptu there edge- 
wise. " Very well, I thank you," said he, after the 
eating elements were adjusted ; " and you ? " And 
then did he not have to hear about the mumps, and 



168 MY DOUBLE AND HOW HE UNDID ME 

the measles, and arnica, and belladonna, and camo- 
mile-flower, till she changed oysters for salad; and 
then about the old practice and the new, and what 
her sister said, and what her sister's friend said, and 
then what was said by the brother of the sister of the 
physician of the friend of her sister ? 

After the Double had become a matter of course, 
for nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a 
year it was ! Full of active life, full of happy love, of 
the hardest work, of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfil- 
ment of so many of the fresh aspirations and dreams 
of boyhood. Dennis went to every school-committee 
meeting and sat through all those wranglings which 
used to keep me up till midnight and awake till morn- 
ing. He attended all the lectures and charity concerts 
for which tickets were sent me. He appeared every- 
where where it was specially desirable that " our de- 
nomination," or " our party," or "our class," or u our 
family," or "our town," or "our state" should be 
fully represented. My calls on my parishioners be- 
came the friendly, frequent, homelike sociabilities 
that they were meant to be, instead of the hard work 
of a man goaded to desperation by the sight of his 
list of arrears. And preaching : what a luxury preach- 
ing was when I had ample time to prepare the ser- 
mon ! 

But all this could not last ; and at length poor Den- 
nis, overtasked in turn, undid me. 

What happened was this. Governor Gorges was 
billed to speak at a certain civic function. An audi- 
ence of a thousand people assembled. Poor Gorges 
came late, really ignorant of the object of the meet- 
ing. He opened it in the fewest possible words, and 
said other gentlemen were present who would enter- 



MY DOUBLE AND HOW HE UNDID ME 169 

tain them better than he. The audience were disap- 
pointed but waited. The Governor said, " The Hon. 
Mr. Delafield will address you." Delafield ! He was 
playing at the chess-club. " The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty 
will address you." Auchmuty had promised to speak 
late, and had not yet arrived. " I see Dr. Stearns in 
the hall ; perhaps he will say a word." Dr. Stearns 
said he had come to listen and not to speak. 

The Governor looked at Dennis, who was resplend- 
ent on the platform. The look was enough. A miser- 
able lad, ill-bred, thought it would sound well to call 
for me, and peeped out, " Ingham ! " A few more 
wretches cried, " Ingham ! Ingham ! " The Governor 
knew I would say something and said : " Our friend 
Mr. Ingham is always prepared; and, though we had 
not relied upon him, will say a word, perhaps." 

Applause followed which turned Dennis's head. 
He rose, fluttered, and tried No. 3 : " There has been so 
much said, and, on the whole so well said, that I will 
not longer occupy the time ! " and sat down, looking 
for his hat ; for things seemed squally. But the people 
cried, "Go on! go on!" and some applauded. Den- 
nis, still confused, but flattered by the applause, this 
time tried No. 2 : " I am very glad you liked it ! " in 
a sonorous, clear delivery. 

My best friends stared. All the people who did not 
know me personally yelled with delight at the aspect 
of the evening. A boy in the gallery cried in a loud 
tone, " It 's all an infernal humbug," just as Dennis, 
waving his hand, commanded silence and tried No. 4 : 
" I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of 
the room." The poor Governor doubted his senses. 
The same gallery-boy shouted, " How 's your mother ? " 
and Dennis, now completely lost, tried, as his last 



170 MY DOUBLE AND HOW HE UNDID ME 

shot, No. 1, vainly: "Very well, thank you; and 
you?" 

The audience rose in a whirl of amazement, rage, 
and sorrow. Some other impertinence, aimed at Den- 
nis, broke all restraint, and, in pure Irish, he delivered 
himself of an address to the gallery, inviting any per- 
son who wished to fight to come down and do so, — 
stating that they were all dogs and cowards, and the 
sons of dogs and cowards, — that he would take any 
five of them single-handed. " Shure, I have said all 
his Eiverence and the Misthress bade me say," cried 
he, in defiance ; and, seizing the Governor's cane from 
his hand, brandished it above his head. He was, in- 
deed, got from the hall only with the greatest difficulty 
by the Governor, the city marshal, and the superin- 
tendent of my Sunday School. 

The universal impression, of course, was that the 
Rev. Frederic Ingham had lost all command of him- 
self in some of those haunts of intoxication which for 
fifteen years I have been laboring to destroy. Till this 
moment, indeed, that is the impression. My Double 
has undone me. 



TWO PAIE OF SHOES 1 

JOSEPH C. LINCOLN 

One of the folks whom Jonadab and I met at the 
wedding of Ebenezer Dillaway's daughter was real 
sociable. His last name had a splice in the middle of 
it — 't was Catesby-Stuart. Everybody — that is, 
'most everybody, — called him " Phil." 

Somehow or 'nother Phil got Cap'n Jonadab talk- 
ing " boat," and when Jonadab talks " boat " there 
ain't no stopping him. He 's the smartest feller in a 
cat-boat that ever handled a tiller, and he 's won more 
races than any man on the Cape, I callate. Phil 
asked him and me if we 'd ever sailed on an ice-boat, 
and, when we said we hadn't, he asks if we won't 
take a sail with him on the river next morning. We 
did n't want to put him to so much trouble on our 
account, but he said : " Not at all. Pleasure '11 be all 
mine, I assure you." Well, 't was his for a spell — 
but never mind that now. 

He introduced us to quite a lot of the comp'ny — 
men mostly. Then he began to show us off, so to 
speak, get Jonadab telling 'bout the boats he 'd sailed, 
or something like it ; and them fellers would laugh 
and holler, but Phil's face would n't shake out a reef : 
he looked solemn as a fun'ral all the time. Jonadab 
and me begun to think we was making a great hit. 
Well, we was, but not the way we thought. I remem- 

1 Abridged. From " The Old Home House." Copyright, 1907, by 
A. S. Barnes & Company, N.Y. 



172 TWO PAIR OF SHOES 

ber one of the gang gets Phil to one side after a talk 
like this and whispers to him, laughing like fun, Phil 
says to him : " My dear boy, now that I Ve discovered 
something positively original, let me enjoy myself. The 
entertainment by the Heavenly Twins is only begun." 

I did n't know what he meant then ; I do now. 

You see, when a green city chap comes to the Old 
Home House, — and the land knows there's freaks 
enough do come, — we always try to make things pleas- 
ant for him, and the last thing we 'd think of was mak- 
ing him a show afore folks. But we was suspicious, a 
little. 

" Barzilla," says Jonadab, when getting ready that 
night to turn in, " 't ain't possible that that feller with 
the sprained last name is having fun with us, is it? " 

" ' Jonadab," says I, " I 've been wondering that my- 
self." 

Next morning one of the stewards comes up to our 
room with some coffee and grub, and says that Mr. 
Catesby-Stuart requested the pleasure of our comp'ny 
on a afore-breakfast ice-boat sail, and would meet us 
at the pier in half an hour. 

Phil and the ice-boat met us on time. I s'pose 
9 t was style, but if I had n't known I 'd have swore 
he 'd run short of duds and had dressed up in the bed- 
clothes. I felt of his coat when he wa'n't noticing, and 
if it wa'n't made out of a blanket then I never slept 
under one. And it made me think of my granddad to 
see what he had on his head — a reg'lar nightcap, tas- 
sel and all. 

That ice-boat was a bird. I cal'lated to know a boat 
when I sighted one, but a flat-iron on skates was some- 
thing bran-new. I did n't think much of it, and I could 
see that Jonadab did n't neither. 






TWO PAIR OF SHOES 173 

But in about three shakes of a lamb's tail I was 
ready to take it all back and say I never said it. I 
done enough praying in the next half hour to square 
up for every Friday night meeting I 'd missed sence I 
was a boy. Phil got sail onto her, and we moved out 
kind of slow. 

" Now, then," says he, u we '11 take a little jaunt up 
the river. 'Course this is n't like one of your Cape Cod 
cats, but still — " 

And then I dug my finger-nails into the deck. Talk 
about going ! 'T was F-s-s-s-tf and we was a mile from 
home; B-u-z-z-z! and we was just getting ready to 
climb a bank ; but 'fore she nosed the shore Phil would 
put the helm over and we 'd whirl round like a wind- 
mill, with me and Jonadab biting the planking, and 
hanging on for dear life, and my heart, that had been 
up in my mouth, knocking the soles of my boots off. 
And Cap'n Phil Catesby-Stuart would grin, and drawl : 
" 'Course, this ain't like a Orham cat-boat, but she 
does fairly well — er — fairly. Now, for instance, how 
does this stride you?" 

It struck us — I don't think any got away. I ex- 
pected every minute to land in the hereafter, and it got 
so that the prospect looked kind of inviting, if only to 
get somewheres where 't was warm. I could see why 
Phil was wearing the bed-clothes ; what I was suffering 
for just then was a feather mattress on each side of 
me. 

Well, me and Jonadab was " it" for quite a spell. 
Phil had all the fun, and I guess he enjoyed it. If 
he 'd stopped right then, when the fishing was good, I 
cal'late he 'd have fetched port with a full hold ; but 
no, he had to rub it in, so to speak, and that 's where 
he slopped over. You know how 't is when you 're eat- 



174 TWO PAIR OF SHOES 

ing mince-pie — it 's the " one more slice " that fetches 
the nightmare. Phil stopped to get that slice. 

Just then along comes another feller in the same 
kind of hooker and gives us a hail. There was two 
chaps on the boat with him. 

" Hello, Phil ! " he yells, rounding his flat-iron into 
the wind abreast of ours and bobbing his night-cap. 
" I hoped you might be out. Are you game for a 
race?" 

" Archie," answers our skipper, solemn as a setting 
hen, " permit me to introduce to you Cap'n Jonadab 
Wixon and Admiral Barzilla Wingate, of Orham, on 
the Cape. 

"The Cap'n and the Admiral," says Phil, "having 
sailed the raging main for lo ! these many years, are 
now favoring me with their advice concerning the navi- 
gation of ice-yachts. Archie, if you 're willing to enter 
against such a handicap of brains and barnacles, I '11 
race you on a beat up to the point yonder, then on the 
ten-mile run afore the wind to the buoy opposite the 
Club, and back to the cove by Dillaway's. And we '11 
make it a case of wine. Is it a go ? " 

Archie, he laughed and said it was, and, all at once, 
the race was on. 

Now, Phil had lied when he said we was " favoring " 
him with advice, 'cause we hadn't said a word; but 
that beat up to the point wa'n't half over afore Jona- 
dab and me was dying to tell him a few things. He 
handled that boat like a lobster. Archie gained on 
every tack and come about for the run a full minute 
afore us. 

Cap'n Jonadab was on edge. Racing was where he 
lived, as you might say, and he fidgeted like he was 
setting on a pin-cushion. By and by he snaps out: — 






TWO PAIR OF SHOES 175 

" Keep her off ! Keep her off afore the wind ! Can't 
you see where you 're going ? " 

Phil looked at him as if he was a graven image, and 
all the answer he made was ; " Be calm, Barnacles, be 
calm!" 

But pretty soon I could n't stand it no longer, and I 
busts out with : " Keep her off, Mr. What's-your 
name ! For the Lord's sake, keep her off ! He '11 beat 
the life out of you ! " 

And all the good that done was for me to get a 
stare that was colder then the wind, if such a thing 's 
possible. 

But Jonadab got fidgetyer every minute, and when 
we come out into the broadest part of the river, within 
a little ways of the buoy, he could n't stand it no 
longer. 

"You're spilling half the wind!" he yells. "Pint 
her for the buoy or else you '11 be licked to death ! 
Jibe her so 's she gits it full. Jibe her, you lubber ! 
Don't you know how ? Here ! let me show you ! " 

And the next thing I knew he fetched a hop like a 
frog, shoved Phil out of the way, grabbed the tiller, 
and jammed it over. 

She jibed — oh, yes, she jibed ! If anybody says 
she did n't you send 'em to me. I give you my word 
that that flat-iron jibed twice — once for practice, I 
jedge, and then for business. I jest had sense enough 
to clamp my mittens onto the little brass rail by the 
stern and hold on ; then she jibed the second time. 
She stood up on two legs, the boom come over with a 
slat that pretty nigh took the mast with it, and the 
whole shebang whirled around as if it had forgot some- 
thing. I have a foggy kind of remembrance of locking 
my mitten clamps fast onto that rail while the rest of 



176 TWO PAIR OF SHOES 

me streamed out in the air like a burgee. Next thing 
I knew we was scooting back towards Dillaway's, with 
the sail catching every ounce that was blowing. Jon- 
adab was braced across the tiller, and there, behind 
us, was the Honorable Philip Catesby-Stuart, flat on 
his back, with his blanket legs looking like a pair of 
compasses, and skimming in whirligigs over the slick 
ice towards Albany. He had n't had nothing to hold 
onto, you understand. Well, if I hadn't seen it, I 
would n't have b'lieved that a human being could spin 
so long or travel so fast on his back. His legs made 
a kind of smoky circle in the air over him, and he 'd 
got such a start I thought he 'd never stop a-going. 
He come to a place where some snow had melted in 
the sun and there was a pond, as you might say, on 
the ice, and he went through that, heaving spray like 
one of them circular lawn-sprinklers the summer folks 
have. He 'd have been as pretty as a fountain, if we 'd 
had time to stop and look at him. 

" For the land sakes, heave to ! " I yelled, soon 's I 
could get my breath. " You 've spilled the skipper! " 

" Skipper be durned ! " howls Jonadab, squeezing 
the tiller and keeping on the course ; " we '11 come 
back for him by-and-by. It 's our business to win this 
race." 

And, by ginger ! we did win it. We run up abreast 
of Dillaway's, putting on all the fancy frills of a liner 
coming into port, and there was Ebenezer and a whole 
crowd of wedding company down by the landing. 

"Gosh!" says Jonadab, tugging at his whiskers, 
" 't was Cape Cod against New York that time, and 
you can't beat the Cape when it comes to getting 
over water, not even if the water 's froze. Hey, Bar- 
zilla!" 



TWO PAIR OF SHOES 177 

Ebenezer came hopping over the. ice towards us. 
He looked some surprised. 

"Where's Phil?" he says. 

Now, I 'd clean forgot Phil and I guess Jonadab 
had, by the way he colored up. 

"Phil?" says he. "Phil? Oh, yes! We left him 
up the road a piece. Maybe we'd better go after him 
now." 

And then along comes Archie and his crowd in the 
other ice-boat. 

u Hi ! " he yells. " Who sailed that boat of yours? 
He knew his business all right. I never saw anything 
better. Phil — Why, where is Phil? " 

I answered him. " Phil got out when we jibed," I 
says. 

" Was that Phil ? " he hollers ; and then the three 
of 'em just roared. 

"Oh, by Jove, you know ! " says Archie, " that 's the 
funniest thing I ever saw. And on Phil, too ! He '11 
never hear the last of it at the club — hey, boys?" 

When they 'd gone, Jonadab turned to Ebenezer 
and he says : " That taking us out on this boat was 
another case of having fun with the countrymen. 
Hey?" 

" I guess so," says Ebenezer Dillaway. " I b'lieve 
he told one of the guests that he was going to put 
Cape Cod on ice this morning." 

I looked away up the river where a little black 
speck was just getting to shore. And I thought of 
how chilly the wind was out there, and how that ice- 
water must have felt, and what a long ways 't was 
from home. And then I smiled, slow and wide ; there 
was a barge-load of joy in every half inch of that 
smile. 



178 TWO PAIR OF SHOES 

44 It 's a cold day when Phil loses a chance for a 
joke," says Ebenezer. 

44 'T ain't exactly what you 'd call summery just 
now," I says. And we hauled down sail, run the ice- 
boat up to the wharf, and went up to our room to 
pack our extension cases for the next train. 

44 You see," says Jonadab, putting in his other shirt, 
44 it 's easy enough to get the best of Cape folks on 
some things, but when it comes to boats that 's a dif- 
ferent pair of shoes." 

44 1 guess Phil 11 agree with you," I says. 



DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING- 
MACHINE 1 

JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE 

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, 
Wise or otherwise, good or bad, 
Who, seeing the birds fly, did n't jump 
With flapping arms from stake or stump, 

Or, spreading the tail 

Of his coat for a sail, 
Take a soaring leap from post or rail, 

And wonder why 

He could n't fly, 
And flap and flutter and wish and try, — 
If ever you knew a country dunce 
Who did n't try that as often as once, 
All I can say is, that 's a sign 
He never would do for a hero of mine. 

An aspiring genius was D. Green : 
The son of a farmer, — age fourteen ; 
His body was long and lank and lean, — 
Just right for flying, as will be seen ; 
He had two eyes, each bright as a bean, 
And a freckled nose that grew between, 
A little awry, — for I must mention 
That he had riveted his attention 
Upon his wonderful invention, 

1 Abridged. 



180 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 

Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, 
Working his face as he worked the wings, 
And with every turn of gimlet and screw 
Turning and screwing his mouth round too. 

" Birds can fly, 

An' why can't I ? 

Must we give in," 

Says he with a grin, 
" 'T the bluebird an' phoebe 

Are smarter 'n we be ? 
Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller 
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler ? 
Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren, 
No bigger 'n my thumb, know more than men ? 

Jest show me that ! 

Er prove 't the bat 
Hez got more brains than 's in my hat, 
An' I '11 back down, an' not till then ! " 

He argued further : " Ner I can't see 
What 's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, 
Fer to git a livin' with, more 'n to me ; — 

Ain't my business 

Important 's his'n is ? 

" That Icarus 

Was a silly cuss, — 
Him an' his daddy Daedalus. 
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax 
Would n't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks. 

I '11 make mine o' luther, 

Er suthin'er other." 



DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 181 

And he said to himself as he tinkered and planned: 
11 But I ain't goin' to show my hand 
To nummies that never can understand 
The fust idee that 's big an' grand. 

They 'd ' a ' laf t an' made fun 
O' Creation itself afore 't was done ! " 
So he kept his secret from all the rest, 
Safely buttoned within his vest ; 
And in the loft above the shed 
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread 
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, 
And all such things as geniuses use. 

His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke 

And Nathan and Jot ham and Solomon, lurk 

Around the corner to see him work, — 

Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 

Drawing the waxed end through with a jerk, 

And boring the holes with a comical quirk 

Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. 

But vainly they mounted each other's backs, 

And poked through knot-holes and pried through 

cracks ; 
With wood from the pile and straw from the 

stacks 
He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks ; 
And a bucket of water, which one would think 
He had brought up into the loft to drink 

When he chanced to be dry, 

Stood always nigh, 

For Darius was sly! 
And whenever at work he happened to spy 
At chink or crevice a blinking eye, 
He let a dipper of water fly. 



182 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 

" Take that ! an' ef ever ye git a peep, 
Guess ye '11 ketch a weasel asleep ! " 

So day after day 
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, 

Till at last 't was done, — 
The greatest invention under the sun ! 
" An' now," says Darius, " hooray fer some fun ! " 

'T was the Fourth of July, 

And the weather was dry, 
And not a cloud was on all the sky, 
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, 

Half mist, half air, 
Like foam on the ocean went floating by : 
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen 
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. 

Thought cunning Darius : " Now I shan't go 
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. 
I '11 say I 've got sich a terrible cough ! 
An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off, 

I '11 hev full swing 

Fer to try the thing, 
An' practyse a leetle on the wing." 

" Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" 
Says Brother Nate. " No ; botheration ! 
I 've got sich a cold — a toothache — I — 
My gracious ! — feel's though I should fly ! " 

Said Jotham, " 'Sho ! 
Guess ye better go." 
But Darius said, " No ! 
" Should n't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though, 



DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 183 

'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red 

O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head/' 

For all the while to himself he said : — 

" I tell ye what ! 
I '11 fly a few times around the lot, 
To see how 't seems, then soon 's I 've got 
The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not, 

I '11 astonish the nation, 

An' all creation, 
By flyin' over the celebration ! 
Over their heads I '11 sail like an eagle ; 
I '11 balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull ; 
I '11 dance on the chimbleys ; I '11 stan' on the 

steeple ; 
I '11 flop up to winders an' scare the people ! 
I '11 light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; 
An' I '11 say to the gawpin' fools below, 
4 What world 's this 'ere 

That I 've come near?' 
Per I '11 make 'em b'lieve I 'm a chap f'm the moon! 
An' I '11 try a race 'ith their ol' bulloon." 

He crept from his bed; 
And, seeing the others were gone, he said, 
" I 'm a gittin' over the cold 'n my head." 

And away he sped, 
To open the wonderful box in the shed. 

His brothers had walked but a little way 
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, 
" What on airth is he up to, hey ? " 
" Don'o', — the' 's suthin' er other to pay, 
Er he wouldn 't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." 



184 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 

Says Burke, " His toothache 's all 'n his eye ! 
He never 'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, 
Ef he hed n't got some machine to try." 
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! 
Le 's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn, 
An' pay him f er tellin' us that yarn ! " 
" Agreed! " Through the orchard they creep back, 
Along by the fences, behind the stack, 
And one by one, through a hole in the wall, 
In under the dusty barn they crawl, 
Dressed in their Sunday garments all ; 
And a very astonishing sight was that 
When each in his cob webbed coat and hat 
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. 

And there they hid ; 

And Reuben slid 
The fastenings back, and the door undid. 

" Keep dark ! " said he, 
" While I squint an' see what the' is to see." 

" Hush!" Reuben said, 
" He 's up in the shed ! 
He 's opened the winder, — I see his head ! 

He stretches it out, 

An' pokes it about, 
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, 

An' nobody near ; — 
Guess he don'o' who 's hid in here ! 
He 's riggin' a spring-board over the sill ! 
Stop laffin', Solomon ! Burke, keep still ! 
He 's a climbin' out now — Of all the things ! 
What 's he got on ? I van, it 's wings ! 
An' that 't other thing? I vum, it 's a tail ! 
An' there he sets like a Ijawk on a rail ! 



DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 185 

Steppin' careful, he travels the length 

Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. 

Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat ; 

Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, 

Fer to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by; 

But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. 

They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, 

To see — The dragon ! he 's goin' to fly ! 

Away he goes ! Jimminy ! what a jump ! 

Flop — flop — an' plump 

To the ground with a thump ! 
Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump! " 

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, 
Heels over head, to his proper sphere, — 
Heels over head, and head over heels, 
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, — 
So fell Darius. Upon his crown, 
In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, 
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, 
Broken braces and broken springs, 
Broken tail and broken wings, 
Shooting-stars, and various things ! 
Away with a bellow fled the calf, 
And what was that ? Did the gosling laugh ? 
'T is a merry roar 
From the old barn-door, 
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, 
" Say, D'rius ! how de yeou like flying? " 

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 
Darius just turned and looked that way, 
As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. 
" Wal, I like flyin' well enough," 



186 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE 

He said ; " but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight 
O' fun in 't when ye come to light." 

MORAL 

I just have room for the moral here ; 

And this is the moral, — Stick to your sphere. 

Or if you insist, as you have the right, 

On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, 

The moral is, — Take care how you light. 



HOW "RUBY" PLAYED 1 

ANONYMOUS 

Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty- 
cornedest pianner you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' 
like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid 
was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't 
been he 'd 'a' tore the entire insides clean out, and 
scattered 'em to the four winds of heaven. 

Played well? You bet he did ; but don't interrupt 
me. When he first set down, he 'peared to keer 
mighty little 'bout playin', and wisht he had n't come. 
He tweedle-eedled a little on the treble, and twoodle- 
oodled some on the bass — just foolin' and boxin' the 
thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to a 
man settin' next to me, says I ; " What sort of fool 
playin' is that ? " And he says, " Heish ! " But 
presently his hands commenced chasin' one another 
up and down the keys, like a passel of rats scamperin' 
through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, 
though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' 
the wheel of a candy cage. 

" Now," I says to my neighbor, " he 's showin' off. 
He thinks he 's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee, 
no plan of nothin'. If he 'd play me a tune of some 
kind or other I 'd — " 

But my neighbor says, " Heish ! " very impatient. 

I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired 
of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking 

1 Abridged. 



188 HOW "RUBY" PLAYED 

up away off in the woods, and call sleepy-like to his 
mate, and I looked up and see that Rubin was begin- 
ning to take some interest in his business, and I sit 
down again. It was the peep of day. The light came 
faint from the east, the breezes bio wed gentle and 
fresh, some more birds waked up in the orchard, then 
some more in the trees near the house, and all begun 
singin' together. Just then the first beam of the sun 
fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the 
roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was broad 
day ; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they'd 
split their little throats ; all the leaves was movin', and 
flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world 
was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like 
there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, 
and not a sick child or woman anywhere. 

And I says to my neighbor : " That 's music, that 
is." 

But he glared at me like he 'd like to cut my throat. 

Presently the wind turned ; it begun to thicken up, 
and a kind of gray mist came over things ; I got low- 
spirited directly. Then a silver rain begun to fall. I 
could see the drops touch the ground ; some flashed up 
like long pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like 
round rubies. 

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind 
moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, 
and I could 'a' got up then and there and preached a 
better sermon than any I ever listened to. There 
was n't a thing in the world left to live for, not a 
blame thing, and yet I didn't want the music to stop 
one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be 
happy without being miserable. I couldn't under- 
stand it. I hung my head and pulled out my hand- 



HOW "RUBY" PLAYED 189 

kerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep me from 
cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway ; I did n't want any- 
body to be a-gazin' at me a-sniv'lin', and it 's nobody's 
business what I do with my nose. It 's mine. But 
some several glared at me mad as blazes. 

Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. 
He ripped out and he rared, he tipped and he tared, 
he pranced and he charged like the grand entry at a 
circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house 
was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt 
up my head, ready to look any man in the face, and 
not afraid of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, 
and a big ball all goin' on at the same time. He lit 
into them keys like a thousand of brick ; he give 'em 
no rest day or night ; he set every livin' joint in me 
a-goin', and not bein' able to stand it no longer, I 
jumped spang onto my seat, and jest hollered, — 

" Go it, my Eube ! " 

Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house 
riz on me, and shouted, " Put him out ! put him out! " 

" Put your great grandmother's grizzly gray green- 
ish cat into the middle of next month ! " I says. " Tech 
me if you dare ! I paid my money and you jest come 
a-nigh me ! ' ' 

With that some several policemen run up, and I 
had to simmer down. But I would V fit any fool 
that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby 
out or die. 

He had changed his tune again. He played soft and 
low and solemn. I heard the church-bells over the 
hills. The candles of heaven was lit, one by one; I 
saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began 
to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all 
the angels went to prayers. Then the music changed 



190 HOW "RUBY" PLAYED 

to water, full of feeling that could n't be thought, and 
began to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, clear and 
sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. I 
tell you the audience cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, 
like he wanted to say, " Much obleeged, but I 'd rather 
you would n't interrup' me." 

He stopped a moment or two to ketch breath. Then 
he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he 
shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle 
further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, 
he just went for that old pianner. He slapped her 
face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched 
her ears, and he scratched her cheeks until she fairly 
yelled. He knocked her down and he stamped on her 
shameful. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a 
calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, 
she shrieked like a rat, and then he would n't let her 
up. He run a quarter stretch down the low grounds 
of the bass, till he got clean in the bowels of the 
earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, 
through the hollows and caves of perdition ; and then 
he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got 
way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes 
was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you 
could n't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. 

And then he would n't let the old pianner go. He 
fetched up his left wing, he fetched up his center, he 
fetched up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired 
by platoons, by company, by regiments, and by bri- 
gades. He opened his cannon — siege-guns down thar, 
Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, big guns, 
little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, 
shrapnel, grape, canister, mortars, mines, and maga- 
zines — every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the 



HOW "RUBY" PLAYED 191 

same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the 
walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down ; 
— roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle-uddle-ud- 
dle — raddle - addle - addle-addle — riddle - iddle -id- 
dle-iddle — reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-rlank 1 
Bang !!! lang ! per lang ! p-r-r-v-r-r !! Bang !!! 

With that bang ! he lifted himself bodily into the 
a'r and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, 
his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every 
single solitary key on the pianner at the same time. 
The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred 
and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two 
hemi-demi-semi quivers, and I know'd no mo'. 

When I come to, I were underground about twenty 
foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treating a Yankee 
that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to 
again. Day was breakin' by the time I got to my 
hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my 
name. The man asked me the number of my room, 
and I told him, "Hot music on the half -shell for 
two." 



BROTHER BILLY GOAT EATS HIS 
DINNER 1 

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

One Saturday afternoon, Uncle Remus was sitting 
in the door of his cabin enjoying the sunshine, while 
the little boy was mending, or trying to mend, a small 
wagon with which he had been playing. It was a half- 
holiday on the plantation, and there were several 
groups of negroes loitering about the quarters. Ordi- 
narily the little boy would have been interested in 
their songs or in the drolleries that were passing from 
lip to lip, and from group to group ; but now he was 
too busy with his broken wagon. The old man watched 
the child through half -closed eyes, and with a smile 
that was grim only in appearance. Finally, seeing that 
the little chap was growing impatient, Uncle Remus 
cried out with some asperity, — 

" What you doin' longer dat waggin ? Gi' me here ! 
Fus' news you know, you won't have no waggin." 

The little boy carried it to the old man very readily. 

" Sump'n the matter wid de runnin' gear," Uncle 
Remus remarked. "I dunner how come it got any 
runnin' gear. If you had a i'on waggin, it would n't 
las' you twel ter-morrer night." 

Just at that moment, Big Sam happened to get into 
an angry dispute with Becky's Bill. Big Sam was al- 
most a giant, but Becky's Bill had a free mind and a 

1 Abridged. From "Uncle Remus and the Little Boy." By per- 
mission of the publishers, Small, Maynard & Co., Boston. 



BROTHER BILLY GOAT EATS HIS DINNER 193 

loud tongue, and he made a great deal more noise 
than Sam. This seemed to irritate Uncle Remus. 

"Hush up, you triflin' vilyun ! " he said. " You talk 
bigger dan de Billy Goat did." 

The allusion to the Billy Goat attracted the atten- 
tion of the little boy. He felt sure there was a story 
somewhere behind it, and when Uncle Remus had fin- 
ished his wagon, he began to investigate it. 

"What did the Billy Goat talk about? " he asked. 

"Go en break yo' waggin ; you gwine ter break it 
anyhow, en you des ez well go now." 

" I won't break it any more, Uncle Remus," said 
the little boy. " I 'm going to grease it and put it 
away. What did the Billy Goat talk about?" 

The shrewd youngster placed himself in the attitude 
of a listener and patiently waited. Uncle Remus 
watched him a moment. Then he shook his head and 
said resignedly, — 

" You sho' does bang my time. You er wuss 'n Brer 
Rabbit." 

The little boy blushed and smiled at this, for he re- 
garded it as a high compliment. 

"Yasser," Uncle Remus went on, "wuss'n Brer 
Rabbit — lots wuss. Hen can't cackle widout you 
wanter see what kinder egg she lay; ole Brer Billy 
Goat can't take a chaw terbacker in jue season wid- 
out you want ter know what he talkin' 'bout. En ef 
dey is any tale 'bout Brer Billy Goat, 'tain't no good 
tale fer chilluns, kaze dey might take a notion dat big 
talk is de right kinder talk, en ^hen dey take dat 
notion, somebody got ter frail ? em out wid a bresh 
broom." 

The little boy said nothing, but sat listening. 

" I mighty fear'd you '11 hatter skuzen me," Uncle 



194 BROTHER BILLY GOAT EATS HIS DINNER 

Remus remarked, after a pause. "Look like my 
44 membunce wobblin' roun' like a hoss wid de blin' 
staggers. Yit, nigh ez I kin git at all de ins en outs 
er dish yer tale what we been talkin' 'bout, dey wuz one 
time when Brer Wolf wuz gwine lopin' roun' de set- 
tlement feelin' mighty hongry. He want some vittles 
fer hisse'f , en he want some fer his fambly, yit it seem 
like he can't fin' none nowhars. He talk wid Brer 
B'ar, en he hear tell dat shote meat mighty good, but 
he can't fin' no shote ; he hear tell dat goat meat 
mighty good, but he can't fin' no goat. 

44 But bimeby, one day whiles he gwine 'long de 
road, he seed a big rock layin' in a fiel', en on top er 
dish yer rock wuz Brer Billy Goat. 'T wan't none er 
deze yer little bit er rocks ; it 'uz mighty nigh ez big 
ez dish yer house, en ole Brer Billy Goat wuz a-stand- 
in' up dar kinder ruminatin' 'bout ol' times. Brer 
Wolf loped up, he did, en made ready fer ter see what 
kinder tas'e goat meat got. Yit he took notice dat 
Brer Billy Goat wuz chawin' away like he eatin' 
sump'n. Brer Wolf sorter wait a while, but Brer Billy 
Goat wuz constant a-chawin' en a-chawin'. Brer Wolf 
look en he look, but Brer Billy Goat keep on a-chawin' 
en a-chawin'. 

44 Brer Wolf look close. He ain't see no green grass, 
he ain't see no shucks, he ain't see no straw, he ain't 
see no leaf. Brer Billy Goat keep on a-chawin' en 
a-chawin'. Brer Wolf study, but he dunner what de 
name er goodness Brer Billy Goat kin be eatin' up 
dar. So bimeby he hail 'im. 

44 He 'low, sezee, 4 Howdy, Brer Billy Goat, howdy. 
I hope you er middlin' peart deze hard times ? ' 

44 Brer Billy Goat shake his long beard en keep on 
a-chawin'. 



BROTHER BILLY GOAT EATS HIS DINNER 195 

" Brer Wolf 'low, sezee, i What you eatin', Brer 
Billy Goat ? Look like it tas'e mighty good/ 

" Brer Billy Goat 'low, 6 1 'm a-eatin' dish yer 
rock ; dat what I 'm a-eatinV 

" Brer Wolf make answer, i I 'm mighty hongry 
myself, — but I don't speck I kin go dat.' 

M Brer Billy Goat 'low, ( Come up whar I is, en 
I '11 break you off a hunk wid my horns.' 

"Brer Wolf say, sezee, dat he mighty much erb- 
leege' but he 'low ter hisse'f , ' Ef Brer Billy Goat kin 
eat rock like dat, I speck I better go 'long en let 'im 
'lone.' 

" Brer Billy Goat holler at 'im en say, sezee, ' Ef 
you can't clime up Brer Wolf, I kin come down dar 
en help you up. De rock whar I is is mo' fresher dan 
dat down dar. It 's some harder, but it 's lots mo' 
fresher.' 

" But Brer Wolf ain't stop ter make answer. He 
des kep' a-gwine. He tuck it in his head dat if Brer 
Billy Goat kin eat rock dat away, 't won't do ter fool 
'lang wid 'im, kaze ef a creetur kin eat rock, he kin 
eat whatsomdever dey put 'fo' im." 

"What was Brother Goat chewing?" asked the 
little boy. 

" Nothin' 't all, honey. He wuz des chawin' his cud 
en talkin' big, en I done seed lots er folks do dat away 
— niggers well ez white folks." 



WHEN MALINDY SINGS 

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 

G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy — 

Put dat music book away ; 
What 's de use to keep on tryin' ? 

Ef you practice twell you 're gray, 
You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' 

Lak de ones dat rants and rings 
F'om de kitchen to de big woods 

When Malindy sings. 

You ain't got de nachel o'gans 

Fu' to make de soun' come right, 
You ain't got de tunes an' twistin's 

Fu' to make it sweet an' light. 
Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, 

An' I 'm tellin' you fu' true, 
When hit comes to raal right singin' 

'Tain't no easy thing to do. 

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, 

Lookin' at de lines an' dots, 
When dey ain't no one kin sense it, 

An' de chune comes in, in spots ; 
But fu' real melojous music, 

Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, 
Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me 

When Malindy sings. 

1 From " Lyrics of Lowly Life." Copyrighted 1896. By permission 

of the publishers, Dodd, Mead & Company, N.Y. 



WHEN MALINDY SINGS 197 

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy ? 

Blessed soul, tek up de cross ! 
Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? 

Well, you don't know what you los\ 
Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', 

Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things, 
Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces 

When Malindy sings. 

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', 

Lay his fiddle on de she'f ; 
Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle, 

'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. 
Folks a-playin' on de banjo 

Draps dey fingahs on de strings — 
Bless yo' soul — fu'gits to move 'em, 

When Malindy sings. 

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, 

" Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah 
Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices, 

Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah; 
Den she tu'ns to " Rock of Ages," 

Simply to de cross she clings, 
An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' 

When Malindy sings. 

Who dat says dat humble praises 

Wif de Master nevah counts ? 
Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, 

Ez hit rises up an' mounts — 
Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, 

Way above dis buryin' sod, 
Ez hit makes its way to glory 

To de very gates of God. 



198 WHEN MALINDY SINGS 

Oh, hit 's sweetah dan de music 

Of an edicated band ; 
An' it 's dearah dan de battle's 

Song o' triumph in de Ian'. 
It seems holier dan evenin' 

When the solemn chu'ch-bell rings, 
Ez I sit an' calmly listen 

While Malindy sings. 

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me ! 

Mandy, mek' dat chile keep still ; 
Don't you hyeah de echoes callin', 

F'om de valley to de hill ? 
Let me listen, I can hyeah it, 

Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings, 
Sof an' sweet, " Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, 5 

Ez Malindy sings. 



" TOMMY" 1 

RUDYAED KIPLING 

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer ; 
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no redcoats 

here." 
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit 

to die ; 
I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I : — 
O it 's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, 

go away"; 
But it 's u Thank you, Mister Atkins, " when the 

band begins to play. 
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins 

to play, 
O it 's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band 
begins to play. 

I went into a theater as sober as could be, 

They give a drunk civilian room, but 'ad n't none for 

me ; 
They sent me to the gallery, or round the music-'alls, 
But when it comes to fightin', Lord, they '11 shove me 
in the stalls. 
For it 's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, 

wait outside " ; 
But it 's " Special train for Atkins," when the troop- 
er 's on the tide. 
The troopship 's on the tide, my boys, etc. 

1 In " Barrack-Room Ballads." Published by the Lovell Co., N.Y. 
By courtesy of John W. Lovell. 



200 "TOMMY" 

O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you 

sleep 
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they 're starvation 

cheap ; 
An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they 're goin' large 

a bit 
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. 
Then it 's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 

" Tommy, 'ow 's yer soul ? " 
But it 's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums 

begin to roll, 
The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc. 

We are n't no thin red 'eroes, nor we are n't no 

blackguards too, 
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like 

you; 
An' if sometimes our conduck is n't all your fancy 

paints, 
Why single men in barricks don't grow into plaster 
saints. 
While it 's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an* 

"Tommy, fall be'ind"; 
But it 's " Please to walk in front, sir," when 

there's trouble in the wind, 
There 's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc. 

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, 
an' all ; 

We '11 wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. 

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to 
our face, 

The Widow's uniform is not the soldier-man's dis- 
grace. 



" TOMMY " 201 

For it 's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an* " Chuck 

him out, the brute ! " 
But it 's M Saviour of 'is country," when the guns 

begin to shoot. 
An' it 's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything 

you please ; 
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool — you bet that 

Tommy sees ! 



GUNGA DIN 1 

RUDYARD KIPLING 

You may talk o' gin an' beer 

When you 're quartered safe out 'ere, 

An' you 're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it ; 

But if it comes to slaughter 

You will do your work on water, 

An' you '11 lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that 's 

got it. 
Now in Injia's sunny clime, 
Where I used to spend my time 
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, 
Of all them black-faced crew 
The finest man I knew 
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. 

It was "Din! Din! Din! 

You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din ! 

Hi ! slippy hitherao ! 

Water, get it ! Panee lao ! 

You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din ! " 

The uniform 'e wore 

Was nothin' much before, 

An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, 

For a twisty piece o' rag 

An' a goatskin water-bag 

Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. 

1 From " Barrack-Room Ballads." Published by the Lovell Co., 
N.Y. By courtesy of John W. Lovell. 



GUNGA DIN 203 

When the sweatin' troop-train lay 

In a sidin' through the day, 

Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows 

crawl, 
We shouted, " Harry By!" 
Till our throats were bricky-dry, 
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e could n't serve us 
all. 

It was "Din! Din! Din! 

You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? 

You put some juldee in it, 

Or I '11 marrow you this minute 

If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din ! " 

'E would dot an' carry one 

Till the longest day was done, 

An' 'e did n't seem to know the use o' fear. 

If we charged or broke or cut, 

You could bet your bloomin' nut, 

'E 'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. 

With 'is mussick on 'is back, 

'E would skip with our attack, 

An' watch us till the bugles made " Retire." 

An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 

'E was white, clear white, inside, 

When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! 
It was "Din! Din! Din!" 
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. 
When the cartridges ran out, 
You could 'ear the front-files shout : 
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" 

I sha'n't forgit the night 

When I dropped be'ind the fight 

With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. 



204 GUNGA DIN 

I was chokin' mad with thirst, 

An' the man that spied me first 

Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 

'E lifted up my 'ead, 

An' 'e plugged me where I bled, 

An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water — green; 

It was crawlin' and it stunk, 

But of all the drinks I 've drunk, 

I 'm gratef ullest to one from Gunga Din. 

It was "Din! Din! Din! 

'Ere 's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen ; 

'E 's chawin' up the ground an' 'e' s kickin' all 
around : 

For Gawd 's sake git the water, Gunga Din ! " 

'E carried me away 

To where a dooli lay, 

An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 

'E put me safe inside, 

An, just before 'e died, 

" 1 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. 

So I '11 meet 'im later on 

In the place where 'e is gone — 

Where it 's always double drill and no canteen ; 

'E '11 be squattin' on the coals 

Givin' drink to pore damned souls, 

An' I '11 get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din ! 

Din! Din! Din! 

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din ! 

Tho' I 've belted you an' flayed you, 

By the livin' Gawd that made you, 

You 're a better man than I am, Gunga Din ! 



A MESSAGE TO GARCIA 1 

ELBERT HUBBARD 

When war broke out between Spain and the United 
States, it was very necessary to communicate quickly 
with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was some- 
where in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba — no one 
knew where. No mail nor telegraph message could 
reach him. The President must secure his cooperation, 
and quickly. 

What to do ! 

Some one said to the President, " There is a fellow 
by the name of Eowan will find Garcia for you, if any- 
body can." 

Eowan was sent for and given a letter to be deliv- 
ered to Garcia. 

How the " fellow by the name of Eowan " took the 
letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it 
over his heart, in four days landed by night off the 
coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the 
jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side 
of the Island, having traversed a hostile country on 
foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia — are things I 
have no special desire now to tell in detail. The pQint 
that I wish to make is this : McKinley gave Eowan a 
letter to be delivered to Garcia ; Eowan took the let- 
ter and did not ask, "Where is he at?" 

By the Eternal ! there is a man whose form should 
be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in 

1 (Abridged.) By permission of Elbert Hubbard II, Successor to 
Elbert Hubbard as Head of the Roycrofters. 



206 A MESSAGE TO GARCIA 

every college of the land. It is not book-learning young 
men need, nor instruction about this and that, but a 
stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be 
loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their 
energies ; do the thing — " Carry a message to Garcia." 

General Garcia is dead now, but there are other 
Garcias. No man, who has endeavored to carry out an 
enterprise where many hands were needed, but has 
been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of 
the average man — the inability or unwillingness to 
concentrate on a thing and do it. 

Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy in- 
difference, and half-hearted work seem the rule. 

You, put this matter to a test : You are sitting now 
in your office — six clerks are within call. Summon 
any one and make this request : " Please look in the 
encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me 
concerning the life of Corregio." 

Will the clerk quietly say, " Yes, sir," and go do the 
task? 

On your life he will not. He will look at you out 
of a fishy eye and ask one or more of the following 
questions : 

Who was he ? 

Which encyclopedia? 

Where is the encyclopedia? 

Was I hired for that ? 

Don't you mean Bismarck ? 

What 's the matter with Charlie doing it? 

Is he dead? 

Is there any hurry ? 

Sha n't I bring you the book and let you look it 
up yourself ? 

What do you want to know for ? 



A MESSAGE TO GARCIA 207 

And I will lay you ten to one that, after you have 
answered the questions, and explained how to find the 
information, and why you want it, the clerk will go 
off and get one of the other clerks to help him try to 
find Garcia — and then come back and tell you there 
is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet, but ac- 
cording to the Law of Average I will not. 

Now if you are wise, you will not bother to explain 
to your " assistant " that Corregio is indexed under the 
C's, not in the K's, but you will smile sweetly and say, 
" Never mind," and go look it up yourself. And this 
incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, 
this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheer- 
fully catch hold and lift — these are the things that 
put pure Socialism so far into the future. If men will 
not act for themselves, what will they do when the 
benefit of their effort is for all? 

We have recently been hearing much maudlin sym- 
pathy expressed for the " down-trodden denizen of 
the sweat-shop" and the "homeless wanderer search- 
ing for honest employment," and with it all often go 
many hard words for the men in power. 

Nothing is said about the employer who grows old 
before his time in a vain attempt to get frowzy ne'er- 
do-wells to do intelligent work ; and his long, patient 
striving after " help " that does nothing but loaf when 
his back is turned. 

In our pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men 
who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose 
working hours are not limited by the whistle, and 
whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle 
to hold in line dowdy indifference, slipshod imbecility, 
and the heartless ingratitude, which, but for their en- 
terprise, would be both hungry and homeless. 



208 A MESSAGE TO GARCIA 

Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I 
have ; but when all the world has gone a-slumming I 
wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who 
succeeds — the man who, against great odds, has 
directed the efforts of others, and having succeeded, 
finds there 's nothing in it : nothing but bare board 
and clothes. I have carried a dinner-pail and worked 
for day's wages, and I have also been an employer of 
labor, and I know there is something to be said on 
both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; 
rags are no recommendation ; and all employers are 
not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all 
poor men are virtuous. My heart goes out to the 
man who does his work when the " boss " is away, as 
well as when he is at home. And the man, who, when 
given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, 
without asking any idiotic questions, and with no 
lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest 
sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never 
gets " laid off," nor has to go on a strike for higher 
wages. Civilization is one long anxious search for 
just such individuals. Anything such a man asks 
shall be granted. He is wanted in every city, town, 
and village — in every office, shop, store, and factory. 
The world cries out for such: he is needed, and 
needed badly — the man who can carry a message to 
Garcia. 



DREAMERS 1 

WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN 

It is the fate of those who stand in a position of 
leadership to receive credit which really belongs to 
their co-workers. Even the enemies of a public man 
exaggerate the importance of his work without, of 
course, intending it. I have recently been a victim of 
this exaggeration. Senator Beveridge, of Indiana, 
made a speech before the Republican Club of Lincoln, 
and in it he paid me some compliments ; but he said 
that I was merely a dreamer while President Roose- 
yelt did things. I did not pay much attention to the 
title which he gave me until I read shortly afterwards 
that Speaker Cannon called me a dreamer; then 
Governor Cummins called me a dreamer, and then 
Governor Hanley, of Indiana, did also ; and I saw 
that I could not expect acquittal with four such wit- 
nesses against me, and so I decided to plead guilty 
and justify, 

I went to the Bible for authority, as I am in the 
habit of doing, for I have never found any other book 
which contains so much of truth, or in which truth 
is so well expressed ; and then, too, there is another 
reason why I quote Scripture : When I quote Demo- 
cratic authority, the Republicans attack my authority 
and they keep me so busy defending the men from 
whom I quote that I do not have time to do the work 

1 From a speech delivered at Lincoln, Nebraska, in November, 
1906. 



210 DREAMERS 

I want to do ; but when I quote Scripture and they 
attack my authority, I can let them fight it out with 
the Bible while I go on about my business. 

The Bible tells of dreamers, and among the most 
conspicuous was Joseph. He told his dreams to his 
brothers, and his brothers hated him because of his 
dreams. And one day when his father sent him out 
where his brothers were keeping their flocks in Dothan, 
they saw him coming afar off and said : " Behold, the 
dreamer cometh." They plotted to kill him — and he 
is not the only dreamer who has been plotted against in 
this old world. But finally they decided that instead of 
killing him they would put him down in a pit ; but some 
merchants passing that way, the brothers decided to 
sell him to the merchants, and the merchants carried 
Joseph down into Egypt. The brothers deceived their 
father and made him think the wild beasts had de- 
voured his son. 

Time went on and the brothers had almost forgot- 
ten the dreamer Joseph. But a famine came, — yes, 
a famine, — and then they had to go down into Egypt 
and buy corn, and when they got there, they found the 
dreamer — and he had the corn. So I decided that it 
was not so bad after all for one to be a dreamer — if 
one has the corn. 

But the more I thought of the dreamer's place in 
history, the less I felt entitled to the distinction. 
John Boyle O'Reilly says that 

The dreamer lives forever, 
While the toiler dies in a day. 

And is it not true ? 

In traveling through Europe you find great cathe- 
drals, and back of each there was a dreamer. An 



DREAMERS 211 

architect had a vision of a temple of worship and he 
put that vision upon paper. Then the builders began, 
and they laid stone upon stone and brick upon brick, 
until finally the temple was completed — completed 
sometimes centuries after the dreamer's death. And 
people now travel from all corners of the world to 
look upon the temple, and the name of the dreamer 
is known while the names of the toilers are forgotten. 
No, I cannot claim a place among the dreamers, 
but there has been a great dreamer in the realm of 
statesmanship — Thomas Jefferson. He saw a people 
bowed beneath oppression and he had a vision of a 
self-governing nation, in which every citizen would be 
a sovereign. He put his vision upon paper, and 
for more than a century multitudes have been build- 
ing. They are building at this temple in every nation ; 
some day it will be completed and then the people of 
all the world will find protection beneath its roof and 
security within its walls. I shall be content if, when 
my days are numbered, it can be truthfully said of 
me that with such ability as I possessed, and when- 
ever opportunity offered, I labored faithfully with the 
multitude to build this building higher in my time. 



<y 



LASCA 

F. DESPREZ 

I want free life, and I want fresh air ; 

And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, 

The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, 

The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads 

That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads ; 

The green beneath and the blue above, 

And dash and danger, and life and love. 

And Lasca ! 

Lasca used to ride 
On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side, 
With blue serape and bright-belled spur ; 
I laughed with joy as I looked at her. 
Little knew she of books or of creeds ; 
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs ; 
Little she cared, save to be by my side, 
To ride with me, and ever to ride, 
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. 
She was as bold as the billows that beat, 

She was as wild as the breezes that blow ; 
From her little head to her little feet 

She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro 
By each gust of passion ; a sapling pine, 
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, 
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, 
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. 
She would hunger that I might eat, 
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet ; 



LASCA 213 

But once, when I made her jealous for fun, 
At something I 'd whispered, or looked, or done, 
One Sunday in San Antonio, 
To a glorious girl on the Alamo, 
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger, 
And — sting of a wasp ! — it made me stagger! 
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, 
And I should n't be maundering here to-night t 
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound 
Her torn rebosa about the wound, 
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count 
In Texas, down by the Kio Grande. 

Her eye was brown — a deep, deep brown — 

Her hair was darker than her eye ; 
And something in her smile and frown, 

Curled crimson lip and instep high, 
Showed that there ran in each blue vein, 
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, 
The vigorous vintage of old Spain. 
She was alive in every limb 

With feeling, to the finger-tips ; 
And when the sun is like a fire, 
And sky one shining, soft sapphire, 

One does not drink in little sips. 
..... 
The air was heavy, the night was hot, 
I sat by her side, and forgot — forgot 
The herd that were taking their rest, 
Forgot that the air was close oppressed, 
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, 
In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon — 
That once let the herd at its breath take fright, 
Nothing on earth can stop the flight ; 



214 LASCA 

And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, 
Who falls in front of their mad stampede ! 

Was that thunder ? I grasped the cord 
Of my swift mustang without a word. 
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. 
Away ! on a hot chase down the wind ! 
But never was fox-hunt half so hard 
And never was steed so little spared ; 
For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we 
fared 

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. 

The mustang flew, and we urged him on ; 

There was one chance left, and you have but one. 

Halt ! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse ; 

Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance ; 
And if the steers in their frantic course 

Don't batter you both to pieces at once, 
You may thank your star ; if not, good-bye 
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, 
And the open air and the open sky, 

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande ! 

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt 
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, 
Down came the mustang, and down came we, 

Clinging together, and — what was the rest ? 

A body that spread itself on my breast, 
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, 

Two lips that hard on my lips were pressed ; 
Then came thunder in my ears, 
As over us surged the sea of steers, 



LASCA 215 

Blows that beat blood into my eyes ; 
And when I could rise — 
Lasca was dead ! 

• • • • • 

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, 
And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep ; 
And there she is lying, and no one knows, 
And the summer shines and the winter snows ; 
For many a day the flowers have spread 
A pall of petals over her head ; 
And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, 
And the sly coyote trots here and there, 
And the black snake glides and glitters and slides 

Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree ; 
And the buzzard sails on, 
And comes and is gone, 

Stately and still like a ship at sea ; 
And I wonder why I do not care 
For the things that are like the things that were. 
Does half my heart lie buried there 

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? 



MOTHER AND POET 1 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

TUBIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. 
I 

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 

II 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 

— The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
For ever instead. 

in 
What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the 
pain? 
Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you 
pressed, 
And I proud, by that test. 

1 The mother was Laura Savio of Turin, both poet and patriot, 
whose two sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta. 



MOTHER AND POET 217 

IV 
What art *s for a woman ? To hold on her knees 
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her 
throat, 
Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees 

And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat ; 
To dream and to doat. 

v 
To teach them . . . It stings there ! /made them in- 
deed 
Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no 
doubt, 
That a country 's a thing men should die for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant cast out. 

VI 

And when their eyes flashed . . . O my beautiful 
eyes! . . . 
I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise 
When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then 
one kneels ! 
God, how the house feels ! 

VII 

At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled 

With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how 
They both loved me ; and, soon coming home to be 
spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 



218 MOTHER AND POET 

VIII 
Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona was free ! " 

And some one came out of the cheers in the street, 
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet, 
While they cheered in the street. 

IX 

I bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime 

As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us 
strained 
To the height he had gained. 

x 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 
Writ now but in one hand, " I was not to faint, — 

One loved me for two — would be with me ere long: 
And Viva V Italia! — he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

XI 

My Nanni would add, " he was safe, and aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was 
imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, 
And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed 
To live on for the rest." 

xn 
On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line 
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta: — Shot 



MOTHER AND POET 219 

Tell his mother. Ah, ah, " his," " their " mother, — 
not " mine," 
No voice says " My mother " again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot? 

XIII 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? 

I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so 
The Above and Below. 

XIV 

O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the 
dark 
To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray, 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned 
away, 
And no last word to say ! 

xv 
Both boys dead ? but that 's out of nature. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always 
keep one. 
*T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; 
And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son ? 

XVI 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her 
sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ? 



220 MOTHER AND POET 

When the guns of Cavalli with final retort 
Have cut the game short ? 

XVII 

When Venice and Kome keep their new jubilee, 
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, 
green, and red, 
When you have your country from mountain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And / have my Dead) — 

xvm 
What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells 
low, 
And burn your lights faintly ! My country is there, 
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : 
My Italy 's there, with my brave civic Pair, 
To disfranchise despair ! 

XIX 

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, 
And bite back the cry of their pain in self -scorn ; 

But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length 
Into wail such as this — and we sit on forlorn 
When the man-child is born, 

xx 

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 



INVECTIVE AGAINST NAPOLEON 
THE LITTLE 1 

VICTOR HUGO 

Louis Bonaparte will never be other than the 
pygmy tyrant of a great people. As dictator, he is a 
buffoon ; let him make himself emperor, he will be 
grotesque ; his present prosperity, his triumph, his em- 
pire, and his inflation amount to nothing. Napoleon 
the Little, nothing more, nothing less. 

And such is the man by whom France is governed ! 
governed, do I say? possessed rather in full sover- 
eignty. 

And every day, and every moment, by his decrees, 
by his messages, by his harangues, by all these unpre- 
cedented imbecilities which he parades in the " Moni- 
teur," this emigre, so ignorant of France, gives lessons 
to France ! and this knave tells France that he has 
saved her! From whom? From herself. Before he 
came, Providence did nothing but absurdities ; God 
waited for him to put everything in order ; and at 
length he came. For the last thirty-six years poor 
France has been afflicted with all sorts of pernicious 
things : that " sonority," the tribune ; that hubbub, 
the press ; that insolence, thought ; that crying abuse, 
liberty : he came, and for the tribune, he substituted 
the Senate ; for the press, the censorship ; for thought, 

1 Arranged from "Napoleon the Little." Translated from the 
French by George Burnham Ives. By permission of the publishers, 
Little, Brown & Co., Boston. 



222 INVECTIVE AGAINST NAPOLEON THE LITTLE 

imbecility ; for liberty, the sabre ; and by the sabre, 
the censorship, imbecility, and the Senate, France is 
saved ! Saved ! bravo ! and from whom, I ask again ? 
From herself. For what was France before, if you 
please ? a horde of pillagers, robbers, anarchists, as- 
sassins, demagogues ! It was necessary to put fetters 
on this abominable villain, this France, and it was 
M. Bonaparte Louis who applied the fetters. Now 
France is in prison, on bread and water, punished, 
humiliated, throttled, and well-guarded ; be tranquil, 
everybody ; Sieur Bonaparte, gendarme at the £lysee, 
answers for her to Europe ; this miserable France is in 
her strait-waistcoat, and if she stirs ! — 

Ah ! what spectacle is this ? What dream is this? 
What nightmare is this ? On the one hand, a nation, 
first among nations, and on the other, a man, last 
among men — and see what that man does to that 
nation ! God save the mark ! He tramples her under 
foot, he laughs at her to her face, he flouts her, he 
denies her, he insults her, he scoffs at her ! How now ! 
He says, there is none but I ! What ! in this land of 
France, where no man's ears may be boxed with im- 
punity, one may box the ears of the whole people ! 
Oh ! abominable shame ! Each time that M. Bonaparte 
spits, every one must needs wipe his face ! And this 
can last ! And you tell me that it will last ! No ! No ! 
No ! By all the blood we have in our veins, no ! this 
shall not last. Were it to last, it must be that there 
is no God in heaven, or no longer a France on earth ! 

O my country ! I see you bleeding, inanimate, your 
head hanging, your eyes closed, the marks of the whip 
upon your shoulders. 

And it is this Bonaparte who has caused all this ! 
And it is in the midst of the greatest century of 



INVECTIVE AGAINST NAPOLEON THE LITTLE 223 

all history, that this man has suddenly risen and has 
triumphed ! To seize upon France as his prey, great 
Heaven ! What the lion would not dare to do, the ape 
has done ! what the eagle would have dreaded to seize 
in his talons, the parrot has taken in his claws. What ! 
the most brilliant concourse of men ! the most mag- 
nificent movement of ideas! the most formidable se- 
quence of events ! a thing that no Titan could have 
controlled, that no Hercules could have turned aside, 
— the human flood in full course, the French wave 
sweeping onward, civilization, progress, intelligence, 
revolution, liberty, — he stopped it all one fine morn- 
ing, stopped it short, he, this mask, this dwarf, this 
aborted Tiberius, this nothing ! 

God was advancing. Louis Bonaparte, his plume on 
his head, blocked his path and said to God : " Thou 
shalt go no farther ! " God halted. 

And you fancy that this is so ! 

You do not see, then, that all this is a chimera ! you 
do not see that the 2nd of December is nothing but an 
immense illusion, a pause, a breathing-space, a sort of 
drop-curtain behind which moves God, that marvelous 
scene-shifter ! You gaze stupidly at the curtain, at the 
things painted on the coarse canvas, and you take them 
all for realities ! And you do not hear beyond them, 
in the shadow, that hollow sound ! you do not hear 
some one going and coming! you do not see that cur- 
tain quiver in the breath of Him who is behind, pre- 
paring and constructing the last act, the supreme, 
triumphal act of the French Revolution. 



THE PATH OP DUTY 1 

GEORGE FRISBIE HOAR 

In a recent speech ex-Congressman Quigg made 
this statement, referring to me : — 

" What he wants us to do I can define in no other 
words than these : He wants us to skulk from our 
duty." 

I wish to put against this statement my emphatic 
denial. What I wanted the American people to do in 
the beginning, what I have wanted them to do all 
along, what I want them to do now is to do in the 
Philippines exactly what we have done, are doing, 
and expect to do in Cuba. . . . We have liberated 
both from Spain, and we have had no thought — at 
least I have had no thought— of giving either back 
to Spain. 

I should as soon give back a redeemed soul to Satan 
as give back the people of the Philippine Islands to the 
cruelty and tyranny of Spain. . . . Having delivered 
them from Spain, we were bound in all honor to pro- 
tect their newly acquired liberty against the ambition 
or greed of any other nation on earth. And we were 
equally bound to protect them against our own. We 
were bound to stand by them, a defender and pro- 
tector, until their new governments were established 
in freedom and in honor ; until they had made treaties 
with the powers of the earth and were as secure in 

1 From an open letter published in the daily papers of Boston, 
January 10, 1900. 



THE PATH OF DUTY 225 

their national independence as Switzerland is secure, 
as Denmark is secure, as San Domingo or Venezuela 
is secure. 

Now, if this be a policy of skulking from duty, I 
fail to see it. . . . 

We based our policy in regard to Cuba, did we not, 
on the ground that it was the policy of righteousness 
and liberty ? We did not tempt the cupidity of any 
millionaire, or even the honest desire for employment 
of any workman, by the argument that if we reduced 
the people of Cuba to our dominion, we could make 
money out of her and she could not help herself. In 
those days we were appealing to the great, noble heart 
of America, and not to the breeches-pocket. . . . 

If we were bound in honor and in righteousness ; 
bound by the history of our own past ; bound by the 
principles and pledges of our people, to abstain from 
depriving Cuba of the liberty we had given her be- 
cause it was right, we are, in my judgment, all the 
more bound to abstain from depriving the people of 
the Philippine Islands of their liberties because it is 
right. • . . 

I would send General Wood or General Miles or 
Admiral Dewey to Luzon. I would have him gather 
about him a cabinet of the best men among the Fil- 
ipinos who have the confidence of the people and de- 
sire nothing but their welfare. In all provinces and 
municipalities where civil government is now estab- 
lished possessing the confidence of the people, I would 
consult with their rulers and representatives. I would 
lend the aid of the army of the United States only to 
keep order. I would permit the people to make laws 
and to administer laws, subject to some supervision or 
inspection, till the disturbed times are over and peace 



226 THE PATH OF DUTY 

has settled down again upon that country, insuring 
the security of the people against avarice, ambition, 
or peculation. 

So soon as it seems that government can maintain 
itself peacefully and in order, I would by degrees 
withdraw the authority of the United States, making 
a treaty with them that we would protect them against 
the cupidity of any other nation and would lend our 
aid for a reasonable time to maintain order and law. 
I would not hesitate, if it were needful, although I 
have not the slightest belief that it would be needful, 
to vote to make them a loan of a moderate sum to re- 
plenish their wasted treasury. 

Now if this be skulking, if this be ignoble, if this 
be unworthy of an American citizen or a Massachu- 
setts Senator, then I must plead guilty to Mr. Quigg's 
charge. But these are the things I would have done, 
and this is the thing I would do now. If this counsel 
had been followed, not a man would have died on 
either side ; not a drop of blood would have been spilt; 
not a recruit would have been needed by army or navy 
since the day when Manila capitulated to Otis. . . . 

I do not know what other men may think, or what 
other men may say. But there is not a drop of blood 
in my veins, there is not a feeling in my heart that 
does not respect a weak people struggling with a 
strong one. . . . 

When Patrick Henry was making his great speech 
in the State House at Williamsburg for the same cause 
for which the Filipinos are now dying, he was inter- 
rupted by somebody with a shout of "Treason ! " He 
finished his sentence, and replied, as every schoolboy 
knows : " If this be treason, make the most of it." I 
am unworthy to loose the latchet of the shoes of Pat- 



THE PATH OF DUTY 227 

rick Henry. But I claim to love human liberty as well 
as he did, and I believe the love of human liberty will 
never be held to be treason by Massachusetts. 

There were five of my name and blood who stood in 
arms at Concord Bridge in the morning of the Revo- 
lution, on the 19th of April, 1775. My grandfather 
stood with John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and 
Benjamin Franklin when they presented to the Con- 
tinental Congress that great paper, the bringing in of 
which was the foremost action of human history, which 
declares that the just powers of government rest upon 
the consent of the people, and that when a people de- 
sires it, the laws of nature and the laws of God entitle 
them to take a separate and equal station among the 
nations of the earth. . . . 

I have no right to feel any peculiar pride in the 
action of any ancestor of my own in those great days 
which tried men's souls, and when all true Americans 
thought in that way, although I should be disgraced, 
and ought to hide my head from the gaze of men, if I 
were to depart from those principles. But I have a 
right to feel a just pride in, and to boast of something 
much higher than any personal kindred. I am a son 
of Massachusetts. For more than three-score years 
and ten I have sat at her dear feet. I have seen the 
light from her beautiful eyes. I have heard high counsel 
from her lips. She has taught me to love liberty, to 
stand by the weak against the strong, when the rights 
of the weak are in peril; she has led me to believe 
that if I do this, however humbly, however imper- 
fectly, and whatever other men may say, I shall have 
her approbation, and shall be deemed not unworthy 
of her love. Other men will do as they please. But as 
for me, God helping me, I can do no otherwise. 



THE SOLUTION OF THE SOUTHERN 
PROBLEM 1 

BOOKER T. WASHINGTON 

A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted 
a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate 
vessel was seen the signal : " Water, water ; we die 
of thirst ! " The answer from the friendly vessel at 
once came back : " Cast down your bucket where you 
are." A second and a third time the signal, " Water, 
water; send us water!" ran up from the distressed 
vessel, and was answered : " Cast down your bucket 
where you are." . . . The captain of the distressed 
vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his 
bucket, and it came up full of fresh, sparkling water 
from the mouth of the Amazon River. To those of 
my race who depend on bettering their condition in a 
foreign land, or who underestimate the importance 
of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern 
white man, who is their next-door neighbor, I would 
say : " Cast down your bucket where you are — cast 
it down in making friends in every manly way of the 
people of all races by whom we are surrounded." 

Cast it down in agriculture, in mechanics, in com- 
merce, in domestic service, and in the professions. . . . 

Our greatest danger is, that in the great leap from 
slavery to freedom we may overlook the fact that the 
masses of us are to live by the productions of our 

1 From an address delivered at the opening of the Atlanta Ex- 
position, September, 1895. 



SOLUTION OF THE SOUTHERN PROBLEM 229 

hands, and fail to keep in mind that we shall prosper 
in proportion as we learn to dignify and glorify com- 
mon labor and put brains and skill into the common 
occupations of life ; shall prosper in proportion as we 
learn to draw the line between the superficial and the 
substantial, the ornamental gewgaws of life and the 
useful. No race can prosper till it learns that there 
is as much dignity in tilling a field as in writing a 
poem. It is at the bottom of life we must begin, 
and not at the top. Nor should we permit our griev- 
ances to overshadow our opportunities. 

To those of the white race who look to the incom- 
ing of those of foreign birth and strange tongue and 
habits for the prosperity of the South, were I per- 
mitted I would repeat what I say to my own race, 
" Cast down your bucket where you are." Cast it 
down among the eight million negroes whose habits 
you knew, whose fidelity and love you have tested in 
days when to have proved treacherous meant the ruin 
of your firesides. Cast down your bucket among these 
people who have, without strikes and labor wars, 
tilled your fields, cleared your forests, builded your 
railroads and cities, and brought forth treasures from 
the bowels of the earth, and helped make possible 
this magnificent representation of the progress of the 
South. Casting down your bucket among my people, 
helping and encouraging them to education of head, 
hand, and heart, you will find that they will buy 
your surplus land, make blossom the waste places in 
your fields, and run your factories. While doing this, 
you can be sure in the future, as in the past, that you 
and your families will be surrounded by the most 
patient, faithful, law-abiding and unresentful people 
that the world has seen. As we have proved our loy- 



230 SOLUTION OF THE SOUTHERN PROBLEM 

alty to you in the past, in nursing your children, 
watching by the sick-bed of your mothers and fathers, 
and often following them with tear-dimmed eyes to 
their graves, so in the future, in our humble way, we 
shall stand by you with a devotion that no foreigner 
can approach, ready to lay down our lives, if need be, 
in defense of yours, interlacing our industrial, com- 
mercial, civil, and religious life with yours in a way 
that shall make the interests one. • . . 

There is no defense or security for any of us except 
in the highest intelligence and development of all. If 
anywhere there are efforts tending to curtail the full- 
est growth of the Negro, let these efforts be turned 
into stimulating him, encouraging him, and making 
him the most useful and intelligent citizen. Effort 
or means so invested will pay a thousand per cent 
interest. These efforts will be twice blessed — " Bless- 
ing him that gives and him that takes." There is no 
escape through law of man or God from the inevi- 
table : — 

" The laws of changeless justice bind, 

Oppressor with oppressed; 
And close as sin and suffering joined, 

We march to fate abreast." 

Nearly sixteen millions of hands will aid you in 
pulling the load upwards, or they will pull against 
you the load downwards. We shall constitute one 
third and more of the ignorance and crime of the 
South or one third of its intelligence and progress ; 
we shall contribute one third to the business and in- 
dustrial prosperity of the South, or we shall prove a 
veritable body of death, stagnating, depressing, re- 
tarding every effort to advance the body politic. 
. And here, bending, as it were, over the altar that 



SOLUTION OF THE SOUTHERN PROBLEM 231 

represents the results of the struggles of your race 
and mine, both starting practically empty-handed 
three decades ago, I pledge that in your effort to 
work out the great and intricate problem which God 
has laid at the doors of the South you shall have at 
all times the patient, sympathetic help of my race ; 
only let this be constantly in mind : that, while from 
representations in these buildings of the product of 
field, of forest, of mine, of factory, of letters and 
art, much good will come, yet far above and beyond 
material benefits will be that higher good which, let 
us pray God, will come in a blotting out of sectional 
differences and racial animosities and suspicions, in a 
determination to administer absolute justice, in a will- 
ing obedience among all classes to the mandates of the 
law. This, this, coupled with our material prosperity, 
will bring into our beloved South a new heaven and 
a new earth. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 1 

HENRY WATTERSON 

Amid the noise and confusion, the clashing of intel- 
lects, and the booming of the big oratorical guns of the 
North and the South, there came one day into the 
Northern camp one of the oddest figures imaginable, 
a man who, pausing to utter a single sentence that 
might be heard above the din, passed on and for a 
moment disappeared. The man bore a commission 
from God on high ! He said : " A house divided against 
itself cannot stand. I believe this Government cannot 
endure permanently half free and half slave. I do not 
expect the Union to be dissolved ; I do not expect the 
house to fall ; but I do expect it will cease to be di- 
vided." He was Abraham Lincoln. 

And who was this peculiar being, destined so pro- 
foundly to affect the future of human-kind ? 

He was, himself, a Southern man. He and all his 
tribe were Southerners. Although he left Kentucky 
when but a child, he was an old child ; he never was 
very young ; and he grew to manhood in a Kentucky 
colony ; for what was Illinois in those days but a Ken- 
tucky colony? He was in no sense what we in the South 
used to call " a poor white." Awkward, perhaps ; un- 
gainly, perhaps, but aspiring; the spirit of a hero 
beneath that rugged exterior; the soul of a prose- 
poet behind those heavy brows ; the courage of a lion 

1 Arranged from " Compromises of Life, Lectures and Addresses." 
Copyright, 1906, by Duffield & Co., Publishers, N .Y. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 233 

back of those patient, kindly aspects ; and, before he 
was of legal age, a leader of men. 

We know that he was a prose-poet ; for have we not 
that immortal prose-poem recited at Gettysburg ? We 
know that he was a statesman ; for has not time vindi- 
cated his conclusions ? But the South does not know, 
except as a kind of hearsay, that he was a friend — 
the sole friend who had the power and the will to save 
it from itself. The direst blow that could have been 
laid upon the prostrate South was delivered by the 
assassin's bullet that struck him down. 

It was the will of God that there should be, as God's 
own prophet had promised, " a new birth of freedom," 
and this could be reached only by the obliteration 
of the very idea of slavery. God struck Lincoln down 
in the moment of his triumph, to attain it ; He blighted 
the South to attain it. But let no Southern man point 
finger at me because I canonize Abraham Lincoln, 
for he was the one friend we had at court when friends 
were most in need ; he was the one man in power who 
wanted to preserve us intact, to save us from the 
wolves of passion and plunder that stood at our door ; 
and as that God, of whom it has been said that 
"whom He loveth He chasteneth," meant that the 
South should be chastened, Lincoln was put out of the 
way by the bullet of an assassin. 

And what was the mysterious power of this mys- 
terious man, and whence ? 

He was the genius of common sense ; of common 
sense in action ; of common sense in thought ; of com- 
mon sense enriched by experience and unhindered by 
fear. " He was a common man," says his friend, Joshua 
Speed, "expanded into giant proportions; well ac- 
quainted with the people, he placed his hand on the 



234 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

beating pulse of the nation, judged of its disease, and 
was ready with a remedy." Inspired he was truly, as 
Shakespeare was inspired ; as Mozart was inspired ; 
as Burns was inspired ; each, like him, sprung directly 
from the people. 

I look into the crystal globe that, slowly turning, 
tells the story of his life, and I see a little heart- 
broken boy, weeping by the outstretched form of a 
dead mother, then bravely, nobly trudging a hun- 
dred miles to obtain her Christian burial, I see this 
motherless lad growing to manhood amid scenes that 
seem to lead to nothing but abasement: no teachers; 
no books ; no chart, except his own untutored mind ; 
no compass, except his own undisciplined will; no 
light, save light from Heaven ; yet, like the caravel of 
Columbus, struggling on and on through the trough of 
the sea, always toward the destined land. I see the 
full-grown man, stalwart and brave, an athlete in ac- 
tivity of movement and strength of limb, yet vexed 
by weird dreams and visions ; of life, of love, of reli- 
gion, sometimes verging on despair. I see the mind, 
grown at length as robust as the body, throw off these 
phantoms of the imagination and give itself wholly to 
the work-a-day uses of the world ; the rearing of chil- 
dren ; the earning of bread ; the multiplied duties of life. 
I see the party leader, self-confident in conscious recti- 
tude ; original, because it was not his nature to follow; 
potent, because he was fearless, pursuing his convictions 
with earnest zeal, and urging them upon his fellows 
with the resources of an oratory which was hardly 
more impressive than it was many-sided. I see him, the 
preferred among his fellows, ascend the eminence re- 
served for him, and him alone of all the statesmen of 
the time, amid the derision of opponents and the dis- 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 235 

trust of supporters, yet unawed and unmoved, because 
thorougly equipped to meet the emergency. The same 
being, from first to last ; the poor child weeping over 
a dead mother ; the great chief sobbing amid the cruel 
horrors of war ; flinching never from duty, nor chang- 
ing his life-long ways of dealing with the stern realities 
which pressed upon him and hurried him onward. And, 
last scene of all, that ends this strange, eventful history, 
I see him lying dead there in the Capitol of the nation, 
to which he had rendered " the last, full measure of 
his devotion," the flag of his country around him, the 
world in mourning, and, asking myself how could any 
man have hated that man, I ask you, how can any man 
refuse his homage to his memory ? Surely, he was one 
of God's own ; not in any sense a creature of circum- 
stance, or accident. 

From Caesar to Bismarck and Gladstone the world 
has had its statesmen and its soldiers — men who rose 
from obscurity to eminence and power, step by step, 
through a series of geometric progression as it were, 
each advancement following in regular order one after 
the other, the whole obedient to well-established and 
well-understood laws of cause and effect* They were 
not what we call " men of destiny." They were men 
whose careers had a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
rounding off lives with histories, full it may be of 
interesting, and exciting events, but comprehensive 
and comprehensible — simple, clear, complete. 

The inspired ones are fewer. Whence their emana- 
tion, where and how they got their power, by what 
rule they lived, moved, and had their being, we know 
not. There is no explication to their lives. They rose 
from shadow and they went in mist. We see them, 
feel them, but we know them not. They came, God's 



236 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

word upon their lips ; they did their office, God's man- 
tle about them ; and they vanished, God's holy light 
between the world and them, leaving behind a mem- 
ory, half mortal and half myth. From first to last 
they were the creations of some special Providence, 
baffling the wit of man to fathom, defeating the ma- 
chinations of the world, the flesh, and the devil, until 
their work was done, then passing from the scene as 
mysteriously as they had come upon it. 

Tried by this standard, where shall we find an 
example so impressive as Abraham Lincoln, whose 
career might be chanted by a Greek chorus as at once 
the prelude and the epilogue of the most imperial 
theme of modern times ? 

Born as lowly as the Son of God, in a hovel ; reared 
in penury, squalor, with no gleam of light or fair sur- 
rounding ; without graces, actual or acquired ; without 
name or fame or official training; it was reserved for 
this strange being, late in life, to be snatched from 
obscurity, raised to supreme command at a supreme 
moment, and intrusted with the destiny of a nation. 

The great leaders of his party, the most experi- 
enced and accomplished public men of the day, were 
made to stand aside ; were sent to the rear, while this 
fantastic figure was led by unseen hands to the front 
and given the reins of power. That, during four years, 
carrying with them such a weight of responsibility as 
the world never witnessed before, he filled the vast 
space allotted him in the eyes and actions of mankind, 
is to say that he was inspired of God, for nowhere 
else could he have acquired the wisdom and the virtue. 

Where did Shakespeare get his genius? Where did 
Mozart get his music? Whose hand smote the lyre of 
the Scottish ploughman, and stayed the life of the 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 237 

German priest? God, God, and God alone; and as 
surely as these were raised up by God, inspired by 
God, was Abraham Lincoln ; and a thousand years 
hence, no drama, no tragedy, no epic poem will be 
filled with greater wonder, or be followed by mankind 
with deeper feeling than that which tells the story of 
his life and death. 



INDEX OF TITLES 

Abraham Lincoln (Watterson) 232 

Ardelia in Arcady (Daskam) ..39 

Brother Billy Goat Eats His Dinner (Harris) . . . 192 

Buck Wins a Wager (London) . 106 

Christmas Present for a Lady, A (Kelly) .... 14 

Commencement (Kellogg) ........ 6 

Da Thief (Daly) 30 

Darius Green and His Flying Machine (Trowbridge) . .179 

Death of Steerforth, The (Dickens) 117 

Dreamers (Bryan) 209 

Famine, The (Longfellow) 159 

Fort Wagner (Dickinson) 65 

Gunga Din (Kipling) 202 

Herve' Kiel (Browning) 59 

High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, The (Ingelow) . 122 

Highwayman, The (Noyes) Ill 

How Euby Played (Anonymous) 187 

Invective against Napoleon the Little (Hugo) . . . 221 

Juggler of Touraine, The (Markham) 140 

Lasca (Desprez) 212 

Last Lesson, The (Daudet) 1 

Leap of Roushan Beg, The (Longfellow) 96 

Little God and Dickie, The (Daskam) 32 

Love among the Blackboards (Kelly) 21 

Man without a Country, The (Hale) 52 

Message to Garcia, A (Hubbard) 205 

Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Czar (Verne) ... 88 

Mother and Poet (Mrs. Browning) 216 

My Double and How He Undid Me (Hale) .... 165 

Pasquale Passes (Daly) ......... 28 



240 INDEX OF TITLES 

Passing of Arthur, The (Tennyson) 135 

Path of Duty, The {Hoar) 224 

Pheidippides {Browning) 69 

Poor Fisher Folk, The (Hugo) . . . . . . .154 

Rescue of Lygia, The (Sienkiewicz) . . . . . 77 

Revenge, The (Tennyson) 99 

Sacrifice of Sydney Carton, The (Dickens) . . . . 128 

Scum o' the Earth (Schauffler) 48 

Shamus O'Brien (Le Fanu) 83 

Solution of the Southern Problem, The ( Washington) . . 228 

" Tommy " (Kipling) 199 

Tragedy in Millinery, A (Wig gin) 146 

Troop of the Guard Rides Forth To-day, A (Hagedorn) . 11 

Two Pair of Shoes (Lincoln) 171 

When Malindy Sings (Dunbar) 196 



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